My Pet Chicken, Music Industry Maven
I’ve always dreamt of owning a domesticated house chicken. A rooster, more specifically. Not those woman hens. They’re always laying eggs. It’s like they’re on their periods 24/7, but with high cholesterol, and women are just unbearable to be around during their time of the month. Then again, when are women ever bearable?*
My rooster, Dr. Ticklefeathers, would be the most handsome rooster in all the land, or my apartment complex. He would discover his love of music when our Italian neighbor, Vergiovessi, would play his piano at four in the morning because he’d be high on crack. Dr. Ticklefeathers would let the music gently caress the floppy red thing on top of his head and develop an intense desire to become a pop star.
Next thing I know, Dr. Ticklefeathers will start gelling the floppy red thing into a fauxhawk and wearing tight leather pants. He’d change his name to Cock, a bold, artsy name paying homage to his barnyard background while displaying just a hint of subtle sexuality.
He’d release a hit single, “Eggs”, and though it would be a thinly veiled remake of ZZ Top’s “Legs”, he’d become the star of the Squawk Rock genre overnight. McDonald’s would hit him up for an endorsement deal, and he’d go along with it until learning the main ingredient in McDonald’s chicken nuggets. Then he’d check himself into a mental hospital and start doing lines of cock coke off other patients’ buttocks.
It wouldn’t be long before his ego would get so huge he’d abandon me and I’d have to assassinate him for his own good. I would of course use Janet Jackson’s nipple ninja star to decapitate him while he’s performing at the superbowl.
The nation would mourn the loss of Cock (later changed to Coque), but along with other stars that die too young, he would be remembered forever, like Aaliyah (bet you don’t remember who that is, do you?).
*Note: I am a woman. That joke was sarcastic. Please stop threatening to beat me with your tampon. We both know it wouldn’t really hurt me anyway.