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Cock & Bull





In all his born days, what the Cock hates most is dung, most especially when it is the Bull's. So, once upon a time, the day dawned with the Hen being in labour. It was the ninth month of her pregnancy, and so she was to give birth to her eggs. Traditionally, it was the role of the husbands in the Animal Kingdom to prepare the maternity nest.


Hence, the Cock was not to be reminded of this part. If not for anything, he was so practically anxious to become a real man, surrounded all over by his own ‘chickdren.’ Consequently, he set out into the forest as the sun rises. Chuckling, and whistling, he gathered reeds, and stalks. The reeds he tied into a bunch, the stalks he pounded into sponges for comfort, and complacence.


“Yeah, they would relax, Oh my babes!” he said proudly.


Moreover, lost in thought of the impending posterity, his heart soared high to places of indefinite description; being blown up in his spirited familiar tune, “Happy birthday to yoo…happy birthday to coo…happy birthday to miee,” he skipped his rhythmic steps and oh, he has been stung by a spiky thorn!


He crew hell; seemingly quite uncertain how crowing was done at the moment. Well, soon enough he braced himself up, and slumped to nurse his pains with some bitter herbs.  In his

pains, he noticed nothing abhorrible around him; but he was sure he felt comfortable on a soft something!


Shortly, he drew a long refreshing breath, got up and smacked his buttock. Slash! Splattered upon him, pebbles of dung, while his hands got creamily coated!


“Heavens, this goddamn dunghill of shits, oh ‘am finished. This is infradig…” he cursed as he flew down towards a brook at the neck of the valley. There, after a long refreshing bath, he came out panting, because Cocks are bad swimmers. Wearily, he went home to his wife, and made her nest. In exhaustion, he dozed off under the palm tree outside his hut, and snored heavily, “Crowaoh…hawrrrh…”


Meanwhile, the Bull made his way through the path beside the palm tree, while the Cock was out in the forest. It was quite obvious that the Bull must have made some droppings, anyway. However, in his unconscious consciousness, his train of snoring was broken by a savoury dream. He saw himself on a fire stand dripping ‘fat’, and he giggled audibly, and sighed, “Oops, fatty me!”  Next, he was now counting his chick, and finally he saw himself wearing a pair of slippers along side with Swaddie, the Duck. In his fantasy about his foot wears, he rose in somnambulism from his straw bed, and was dramatizing his new step in

his new ‘fleet’.


However, as he strolled to and fro, he stumbled and over a stump with his beak into something…what’s something? Name it! Ah, DUNG!! Sleepily, he chuckled and chuckled and swallowed. Then, did it dawn on him that he is in a dung feast spree.


“Squarrrach!” spat the Cock.

“…Oh no, not even in my wildest dream could this…,” he spluttered. And driven to frenzy, and armed with ‘quacks’ and ‘words’, the exasperated Cock charged towards the Bull’s pen. There he went, and just at the right time, when the accused was at home; peacefully snoring under the friendly silky morning’s sun.


“Quack, quack, quack! Here you are!,” shouted the Cock right inside the Bull’s ears. “You goddamned good for noth…no no no, good for something, indeed, good for dung spoilt brat. Is high time I left you go free with this shit! I think I better plunge all your dung right at a spot, or I rather block your, em… your, your assholes, as to blockade emh…emh, any further BULL SHIT!


At this, the Bull who has been so rudely awoken, wobbled up. Gently, he scooped the dung-crazy chicken with his horns, and the terror-stricken Cock went high afloat; and in a short

while, came landing, and landing and landing.


Oh my goodness, isn’t this unfair? Guess what, the Cock rather landed upon SOMETHING! of a dunghill. Silently, he got out, swaddled in with the dung-cradle, and thus waddled off without a word to whence he came from.


And what next? `Tis all about the Cock and Bull Story; and this all they have got.

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