Not quite so mellow today.
This is a story about a rooster who bestowed upon himself the mantle of spokescock for the Supreme Poultry Diety after having identified this role as a potentially lucrative source of wealth.
If you notice any similarity to human behaviour, or to any specific living person, I will not be disappointed, but it is of course entirely coincidental and only a product of your imagination.
Henny was a rooster who grew up to be too big for his spurs.
He was a Rhode Island Red who liked to wear a pure white uniform around the farmyard to make himself look like a superior, more important, imposing, and spiritual White Leghorn.
Henny crowed to all the chickens in the world including the Australorps and the Bantams and all the Fancy Breeds that he had special powers, and a message given directly to him by the Avian Divinity, and that he was the only one who had it, and
“all you chickens had better believe me OR ELSE“.
A lot of the chickens did believe Henny, and many were scared out of their tail feathers, so they all gathered in special chicken sheds to listen to him crowing about how all of chickendom was doomed and was going to be destroyed unless they followed his threatening sermon channelled directly via Providential hot-line into his skull.
Then Henny started to do some really weird things to improve his popularity and profit margin following, like getting lame chickens to limp up onto his high perch, after which he would slap them in the face with one of his wings, and they would fall down on their backs looking for all the world like they were hypnotised, before they all miraculously fluttered off with fully-restored unfettered bipedal competence to the back of the shed.
When all the other chooks saw these performances they would jump with joy, and sob, and cry things like “Amen Henny, you da Rooster” and clap their wings together and thump nesting boxes with their feet until their gizzards felt like exploding.
Side to side he would strut across the perch, with his “striking wing” occasionally pointed towards the rafters of the barn, in front of twenty virginal pullets who cluckily provided an accompaniment of the “Halle-brrrrrk-buk-buk-buk” Chorus, which gave Henny time to pause and consider his own wonderfulness before patting his comb back into an appropriate state of evangelistic perfection.
And before all the chickens vacated the hen-house they would leave behind gifts, including shell grit made out of diamonds and gold, and pledge to him a portion of all their future egg-laying profits just so that Henny would never go hungry or poor.
Henny never did ever go hungry or poor, and all the chickens thought that they’d been shown the true road to Poultry Heaven, until the following week when the big truck came and took Henny to the abattoir instead.
At that moment they realised that Henny had in fact been a deceitful imposter who had never really been an officially designated Chickengodly Spokesperson, or even a greater poultry-being than themselves.
Their own personal quiet beliefs in their Diety, along with daily good deeds which honoured their faith, were always going to be in His eyes one thousand-fold more important than anything sprouted by a rooster with a loud beak and a gift of theatre.
The Bucket reaffirms it’s respect for those who choose to hold religious beliefs, but not for those self-appointees or hierarchically commissioned monothiest leaders who find ways to take advantage of those believers.
Thank you to all my wise and wonderful friends who contribute to the discussions following my stories…….especially those who pointed out last time the error of my assumption that garden tools and concrete mixers were keys to a woman’s heart, …
so I went out and got her some of these instead;