Too many roos on the coop floor

This blog is maybe 95% chickens, and 5% Flight of the Conchords. I don't know why; it just happens.

Even after a few sessions of rooster-eliminating, we still have waay too many roosters. Although not all of them are mature, about 33% of our chickens are roosters. Optimal percentage? Around 8%. It's going to be a surprising day for roosters sometime soon.

In the meantime, here is a Flight of the Conchords song that pertains. Caution: The title is "Too Many D-cks on the Dance Floor," and the expurgated word is not "ducks." It is extremely applicable. Sing it with me:
"Too much time on too many hands / Not enough ladies, too many mans..."

How far out are you, man?

Meet the David Bowie Rooster.


He is an Ameraucana. The other three Ameraucana roosters look just like David Bowie Rooster, except they have large, full tails. They have the same kind of hair-band look going on with their rockin' white neck feathers, so I call them the Aerosmith roosters. David Bowie Rooster has no tail, because the Aerosmith roosters peck it off him. All four of them are kind of jerks.

"Why have you named a chicken after David Bowie?" you may be wondering in horrified fascination. Three reasons. Firstly, I think of the human David Bowie as having big hair and then dwindling down to a tiny little ass, like this roo. Plus, this roo is not as a huge of a jerk; he's more quiet and watchful, as human David Bowie may or may not be. But mainly, I like the Flight of the Conchords song "Bowie's in Space", so a fake version of human David Bowie is often on my mind, being sung about under my breath.

Bowie's in... space...

PS: don't get too attached to David Bowie Rooster. For the sake of the hens, there is going to be some serious Ameraucana-rooster-thinning soon.

Who's the Boom King?

This Lace Wyandotte has always looked like a rooster. From the time he was nugget-sized, he was heftier than his friends and had a bright red comb. We dubbed him "rooster boy." And now he is a rooster MAN. In this picture he invites you to check out his handsomeness.
He keeps a beady eye on us when we handle his hens; he looks out for hawks; he is not rough on the hens. When it comes to his duties as Boom King, however...he is not so skilled. (Sorry to air your business on the internet, Rooster Boy.)

"Browwwn paper, whiiiite paper..."

I have been walking around with a head full of Flight of the Conchords snippets for a couple of months. Last night I went to their show at Radio City**, and today...well, I sometimes find that I am singing the stirring finale of Sellotape under my breath. (Browwwwn paper, whiiiite paper, stick it together with the tape! The tape of love...ooh, the sticky stuff... {repeat a million times} )

When you have a ton of chickens, AND the chickens have a blog, your mental state may be regarded as 'slightly suspect.' Let me tell you that singing passionately under your breath does not help your case.

So it simply completes the picture that I am singing TO THE CHICKENS about 'browwwwn paper, whiiiite paper,' etc. Also about Business Time. Also the heartfelt "Roxanne"-type ballad, You Don't Have to Be a Prostitute.
If only I had parrots instead of chickens, they could eventually sing these things back to me.

* * Note: Since I am not originally from New York (or aware of things that are popular), the first I heard of Radio City Music Hall was several years ago. A co-worker proposed that we go as a group to see the "Radio City Music Hall Christmas Show."

This gridlock of nouns shut down my entire brain. I tried and failed to parse it into sense. "Radio City" would not compute... 'Radio' and 'Music' seemed to go together, as did 'City' and 'Hall,' but those words were not next to each other, and they didn't get me any further, anyway: "Radio Music City Hall?" Were "Radio" and "City" both adjectives that applied to "Music?" And then the whole incomprehensible pile-up was topped off with "Christmas Show." What?? It was unintelligible. I just stared stupidly back, slack-jawed. The conversation ground to a halt. Eventually I scraped together the following cogent response to the invitation:

"That's all nouns."

The concern for my mental state MAY have predated the chicken blog.