Age and treachery will always triumph over youth and arrogance—especially when there is a double-barreled shotgun involved.
Farmer Brown decided it was time to upgrade his flock, so he bought a muscular, prime-bred young stallion of a rooster. The cocky young bird immediately strutted over to the coop’s battered old veteran. “Alright, grandpa,” he sneered. “Time to pack your bags. The ladies belong to me now.”
The old rooster sighed. “Look, kid, it’s a massive flock. Why don’t you just let me keep those two blind, elderly hens in the corner? I won’t get in your way.”
“No deals!” the young rooster snapped. “Beat it! You’re completely washed up.”
The old timer thought quickly, a clever glint in his eye. “Tell you what, young blood. Let’s have a footrace around the farmhouse. Winner takes absolute, undisputed control of the entire flock.”
The young bird laughed. “You’re on, old man. And just so the hens don’t think I’m a bully, I’ll even give you a generous head start.”
The race was on. The old rooster bolted around the corner of the house, kicking up dust. A few seconds later, the young champion exploded into a sprint after him. By the time they rounded the front porch, the young rooster was running aggressively just inches behind the old timer, closing the gap at breakneck speed.
Farmer Brown, who was sitting on the porch enjoying a sweet tea, looked up at the sudden commotion. He didn’t hesitate for a split second. He reached over, grabbed his 12-gauge shotgun, aimed across the lawn, and—BOOM!—blew the young rooster completely to smithereens.
The farmer racked a fresh shell, shook his head in absolute disgust, and sighed:
“Dammit! That makes the third gay rooster I’ve bought this week!”
