The Return of Mr. Big Cock

Years ago I wrote under the pen name Zinnia Hope. As Zinnia, I wrote about my family and the ups and downs of having a farm. I posted stories and updates about the wiley ways of the farm chickens, but once I came out of the closet about being Zinnia, I soon stopped writing the humorous stories about the fam and farm.

Today, I was perusing the old blog posts and decided to do some revising and updating and maybe start posting the occassional humorous tale again.

The following is one I've updated and posted for fun.
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Ever get one of those phone calls that just doesn't make any sense? Well, if you're in a business like publishing, you may get a lot of those (or least the emails that make you want to scream),

Publisher: I'm declining this novel because there isn't enough sex in it.

“Are you mad? Not enough sex?”

Publisher: Ms. Brown, you write beautifully, but the sex needs to be more explicit. (First time I've had someone tell me that!)

“Uh...pardon moi for being candid, but what part of {insert graphic sentence from manuscript} didn't you understand? Judging by the stains on my manuscript you returned to me, there is plenty of sex in my novel!

Publisher: In today's erotic romance market there needs to be hotter-than-hot sex.

“Oh, gee, so the hero banging the heroine until her eyes pop out and the sheets catch on fire isn't hot enough? They did it on the porch, on a fence post, on a graveled lane, and I'm still trying to figure out how the hero got his pecker stuck in the mailbox--and I'm the one who wrote that scene!"

Publisher: [laughter] Like I said, Ms. Brown, the sex isn't hot enough.

So, I slammed the phone down and took a walk in the backyard in hopes of spotting an unwary chicken on our farm. As I rounded the corner of the coop, the head rooster a.k.a. Mr. Big Cock (hmm, reminds me of the hero, so maybe the two know one another), stepped out. He stared me down with his beady black eyes. I let out a war whoop and charged him.

He whipped out a tiny Uzi and let it rip.

I dived for the overturned wheelbarrow resting nearby. Ping! Pa-ping! Pa-ping! The spray of teeny shots rang out over the barnyard.

Slowly, I peeped over the top of the wheelbarrow. "You feathery bastard!" I yelled.

"Clake clis!" the rooster squawked and let loose with another barrage.

Off to the side of the coop, I noticed three hens watching the scene. Big Cock ran out of ammo, so while he fumbled with another full cartridge (it must suck that humans have opposing thumbs and chickens don't!), I dashed across the grass and snagged one of the hens, who let out a squawk of fear.

I backed toward the house. "Pull the trigger again and your deluxe roaster babe is dead. I'll wring her neck! Capiche?"

Big Cock watched me back across the yard. He threw his Uzi down and clucked loudly, pacing back and forth in front of the coop, his feathers all ruffled.

Making it to the back patio, I tossed the hen into the yard and slammed the door. She ran like mad, her tubby body waddling from side to side, neck stretched to the limit. She scooped up the Uzi and then raced to Big Cock's side where she raised holy hell, flogged him, stuffed the Uzi up his ass, and sashayed into the coop.

Hmm...I may just have to chicken-nap the rooster and mail him to NYC, or better yet his deluxe roaster babe. The mailman will probably be pissed at me again, but it'll be worth it.