Or you could call Millie my 10year old GSP. Unfortunately she is über efficient in the chicken removal business.
During a chicken rebellion, a lawyer won’t be any help.
It’s cheaper to curb stomp the chicken.
More satisfying, too.
Follow me for more defensive tips.
My old mum used to have chooks, and would cull the roosters soon as they had enough meat on their bones to justify their demise. One particular white leghorn managed to live longer than others, he was the alpha male and a right mean bastard of a bird.
Soon as he saw me he’d come running in full attack mode to rake me with his leg spurs, whereupon I’d kick the shit srse over tit, enough times that he’d retire too crippled and hurt to continue attacking me.
Mum would be cranky, saying that she couldn’t kill him because the meat would be too bruised. Well that, and he must have had broken bones too. Not that it slowed him down in raping me chooks, he was mean there too.
One day he made me mistake of pecking my mum hard enough to draw blood: there were no more commutations for Roger the rooster, he was despatched to the great chicken coop in the sky. Tasted pretty good.
Despatched??
So are you saying you choked your chicken?
I took a load off his mind with a cane knife, an original sugar-cane harvest tool adapted for many and varied uses, even though that industry was fully mechanised since the fifties.
They don’t choke chickens down under, they spank monkeys.
I thought it was call Col. Sanders.
Or you could call Millie my 10year old GSP. Unfortunately she is über efficient in the chicken removal business.
During a chicken rebellion, a lawyer won’t be any help.
It’s cheaper to curb stomp the chicken.
More satisfying, too.
Follow me for more defensive tips.
My old mum used to have chooks, and would cull the roosters soon as they had enough meat on their bones to justify their demise. One particular white leghorn managed to live longer than others, he was the alpha male and a right mean bastard of a bird.
Soon as he saw me he’d come running in full attack mode to rake me with his leg spurs, whereupon I’d kick the shit srse over tit, enough times that he’d retire too crippled and hurt to continue attacking me.
Mum would be cranky, saying that she couldn’t kill him because the meat would be too bruised. Well that, and he must have had broken bones too. Not that it slowed him down in raping me chooks, he was mean there too.
One day he made me mistake of pecking my mum hard enough to draw blood: there were no more commutations for Roger the rooster, he was despatched to the great chicken coop in the sky. Tasted pretty good.
Despatched??
So are you saying you choked your chicken?
I took a load off his mind with a cane knife, an original sugar-cane harvest tool adapted for many and varied uses, even though that industry was fully mechanised since the fifties.
They don’t choke chickens down under, they spank monkeys.
They shock the monkeys, not spank ’em !