Cocky the Cocky Cock

Never, in the history of the farmyard, had there been such an arrogant rooster as Cocky. A hefty Rhode Island Red, he ran the coop as his own personal harem, foisting his rampant prowess upon the long-suffering lady chickens as if it were his God given right.

One sunny morning, Cocky preened his glossy feathers and shook out his magnificent comb so it stood proud and erect. “A lot of people ask if I’m a leg man or a breast man,” he said into the mirror, pretending he was being interviewed by Michael Parkinson. “But face facts; when a motherfucker looks this good, he ain’t got to choose. He going to get the whole portion served up on a plate, every damn time.”

He went strutting out across his territory, casting his beady eyes about for a likely filly to bestow upon his fifty shades of gravy. Down by the corn trough he came across a gathering of girlies and puffed himself up to his full size. He whipped out his enormous dong, so huge and bulbous his wingtips could barely contain it. “Say, which one of you birds wants a good stuffing?”

The timid hens shrank back from his appendage, huddling in the corner, refusing to even look at him.

“Hey, don’t go all frigid on me. Come on, show us your giblets.”

“Actually,” one of the females took a deep breath and faced up to the hulking bantam. “We’ve had our fill of your foul behaviour. We’ve all decided to become lesbi-hens.”

“Bullshit,” Cocky stepped forward, trying to intimidate. “You’re just playing hard to get.”

“It’s true.” She defiantly held her ground. “From now on we’ll only be giving the beak. You’ll have to pleasure your own drumstick.”

Cocky shook his head, incredulous. “Bitch, I’m going to give you five seconds to quit sassing me.”

“Oh, cluck off Cocky. We’re not scared of you.”

Forming a mob, the chickens rushed him. Cocky tried to fight them off, but quickly found himself overpowered by their winged fury. They bore down on him, pecking and scratching with viscous intent. “Please, stop,” he begged, but his pathetic pleas went unheard.

Later that day, the farmer happened by the coop, and was filled with great sadness as he saw the dishevelled figure of Cocky, plucked practically bald and cowering in terror. “Deary me,” he muttered. “Looks like the lead’s gone out your pencil, old son. And you know what that means.” He quickly wrung Cocky’s neck, and that evening the family had him for tea, with some nice roast potatoes and a side helping of pickled red cabbage.