I wish I could take credit for this post, but alas I have to fess up it’s not one of mine and although it made me laugh it definitely has someone else’s fingerprints all over it. A couple of years ago, I stumbled upon the Facebook group Hairy Farmpit Girls. Thankfully it is not focused on hirsute women, but follows the daily antics of a lesbian couple, Swan and Jen, and their adorable four-year old son, Baby Farmpit. Their output is enviable: in addition to tending to goats, donkeys and poultry, they have a business making goats’ milk soap and Swan whips up an enormous amount of suggestive crocheted items. Between tending animals, raising a child and working a hobby farm Swan also knocks out daily funny stories featuring her kid, partner, parents, animals and observations about life.
If you find this one has got you laughing out loud, then head on over to their site and follow them. You won’t be disappointed.
Feather Locklear paused her show for a minute; she thought she heard something crowing outside. She resumed, figuring it had just been a figment of her imagination. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe she was just lonely and her mind was playing tricks on her. The closest she gets to cock these days is on “Lays of Our Lives” and it just doesn’t seem to do it for her anymore. She can tell the roosters are using peacock tail extensions and the hens are faking it by sitting on ceramic eggs. Sure, a ceramic egg is nice when you are molting and the real thing isn’t available, but her imagination is just not getting her there anymore. She has an egg that needs to get laid.
She reminisced about her time as a petite young thing. Back when laying eggs was new and novel and each one exciting. She would march by the roosters in the yard and they would chant “Pullet, Pullet, Pullet” over and over. She pretended to ignore them, but it was nice and made her comb get redder and redder until she would have to run and hide in the nest box.
She had experimented when she was younger and looked back on those memories fondly, sometimes wincing, as she couldn’t believe she had ever been so brazen with a full-grown tom turkey! She could have died from the size of that thing, but she didn’t, so the memory puts a big smile across her beak these days. She remembers the cool fall evening, they explored their mutual love of power ballads and sang “I’m on a Highway to Shell” for what seemed like hours and she performed a solo, risqué feather plucking routine to “I don’t want, anybody else, when I think about you I cluck myself”.
At night, when the sun went down and the moon came out, she would sneak to his roost so the other hens didn’t see, and she would always whisper, “Cock cock cocking on heaven’s door” so he would know it was her. He would present her with mealworms and say, “What’s up?” every time she put her chicken butt in the air to get something below. It was like they finished each other’s sentences. The other hens used to call them names, talk in hushed tones when they walked by and say “What are your babies gonna be, turkens?” And practically cracked a shell over that old joke. It wasn’t a typical relationship, sure, but she was raised as a bantam barnyard mix, so she knew what it was like to be on the outside of things. She and Tom had a wonderful thing going, then one Thanksgiving he was gone.
“I don’t want anybody else, when I think about you I cluck myself.”
Feather Locklear continued to watch her show, and try to get at least one egg out so she could join the gossipy old hen house again. It was like the Leghorns and the Wyandottes laid eggs everyday. They were always going on and on about it, always talking about it. She just wanted to fit in.
“I cluck myself,” she hummed, still trying to get her egg out.
From out of nowhere, she heard ear splitting music and the deepest, longest, loudest crow she had heard ever come from a rooster. She was sure it was real this time. She desperately wanted to get out and check, but with that crow, she swore her egg was going to pop out any minute.
“I wanna cluck you like an animal,” he crowed again.
POP!
That egg came out so fast and so hot, it scrambled on impact with her nest. Musicians always did it for her, and she has never laid an egg so fast as she used to during her time as a groupie for Yolko OhNo. She lied and said she’s in love with him, couldn’t find a feather man.
“Oh well,” she thought, “it might have been messy, but at least I know it still works.”
Feather Locklear, desperately wanting to see what all the fuss was about, leapt from the coop quickly.
“What the hell” she thought. “She’s got eggs, she knows how to use them”.
She ran past some of the other girls, who all gasped at her sudden appearance. She figured it was from jealousy, as she knew she was a petite thing, who could still get mistaken as a pullet on most days, but suddenly WingMa’am pulled her aside.
“Feather, go take a dust bath and clean yourself up,” Wingma’am whispered, “The yolk’s on you!”
Sure enough, Feather still had some of her scrambled eggs stuck in her tail. She ran frantically to dust bathe. She was just getting clean when in walked the most cocky, red, orange and green rooster she had ever laid eyes on.
“My fellow chickens,” the rooster boasted, “Ask not what the farmer’s pantry can do for you, but what you can do for the farmer’s pantry. The name is John F. Hennedy. Pleased to meet you.”
And with that, half the ladies laid an egg where they stood.
Feather realized she had gotten the egg off her bottom and off her face. Before she could even get her first name out, she found her knees getting weak and she was squatting. Cocky John, as the ladies were now calling him, took one glance at her and knew what time it was. For the 1.7 seconds that seemed like an eternity, Feather was fowling at the moon.
Many thanks to the Hairy Farmpit Girls for sharing their story that only they could write.
Featured photo: Bitchin’ Chickens
Bitchin' Chickens 
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