You don’t have to be the Colonel himself to finally see one cartoonish old rooster for what he is: a peckerhead who thinks he’s above the law; a buffoon who preens like the cock of the walk on his way to the chopping block; a foghorn-like loudmouth who spews hate and lies; and a stupid prick who accuses everyone else of all the crimes that he soon can’t resist fingering himself for.
But we’re gonna make it across this barnyard to the front porch of the farmhouse even if we do step in some chickenshit along the way. We just need to keep our heads up, oddly enough. So many beautiful things come into view by looking up, not down at our filthy muck boots: a golden sunrise on the eastern horizon; a perfect pillow of a cloud against the blue sky; a fiery sunset to the west; and, naturally, the stars and planets, the moon and musky satellites in the dusky night.
Loving nature and nurturing truth, not lies, are antidotes to the maladies that we’ve suffered for so long, not just anecdotes about people who spout hate like geysers of foul water. We need to cleanse ourselves of their filth, and let the light and warmth of the sun guide and strengthen us.
We need to keep our eyes on the bucket of KFC at the end of the drive-thru. And when we bring that baby back home, we can’t be too proud or too fearful to fight for a scrawny drumstick or the sinewy wings if they’re all that’s left after the bullies around the table grab the good chicken leg, both juicy thighs and both plump breasts. We just need to be patient. Those gluttons will founder on all the chicken feed that’s tossed to them for their support. They don’t know that they should go ahead and stick a fork in that old rooster stewing in the pot on the stove because he’s done.