God is a giant Hen

Balls Bazook and God, the giant Hen


   God is a giant Hen. Who knew? Well, a zill zill people know out + about in the galaxy, but Earthlings was in The Dark.

   When She clucked about this <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq debacle being a chickenfeces¹ war, She was clucking about deityfeces big time.


   Our giant Hen who art in Heaven is rather a sardonic Fowl, truth be told, sooth be said. She ruffled Her feathers vexedly and turned to giant randy Rooster Randy, her consort, and clucked tinct with vex + saddish, “Blazing feathers, randy Rooster Randy, I may have really laid an egg, a pondu un oeuf, ha fatto un uovo, puso un huevo when I popped out egg Earth. No yolk, randy Rooster Randy,” She sighed as he began to shake his beet-burgundy-colored wattles in an effort to cheer Her up.


   “The yolk’s on you!” he crowed cheerfully. Political philosophy was not always randy Rooster Randy’s finest forte, but trying to cheer up Hen was. There is no Hen but Hen. Her fabulous feathers glistened like rubies and Her eyes shone like fathomless emeralds. She was as fine and shining a Hen as could be Seen or Known or Shown. She shone. She shone like the suns She had laid, that parade of suns which comprised galaxies. Our Hen who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy feathers.

   Balls Bazook greeted our God who art Hen and her consort randy Rooster Randy with the easy familiarity of old pals. Hen didn’t stand upon ceremony with Her pals, but She was plenty pissed with a lot of egg Earth’s dimwit denizens.

   As soon as Her gleaming emerald eye lit upon Balls, She cried, “Balls, what in chickenfeces Hell is going on down there on My egg Earth? I am about to land an official load of major league chickenfeces on that – that –“ She clicked Her beak dreadfully, “that pipsqueak, that popinjay little King George, a fragrant message from Mother, I’ll tell you.”

   Randy Rooster Randy, half of whose feathers were a glorious obsidian black and half were a pearlescent moonstruck tajmahalian white, sent a ruby-eyed glance of warning to Balls. “Do not provoke the Squawk” the glance urgently urged. If Hen got vehemently vexed enough, She could lose chickenwisdom, lose chickenrestraint, lose chickenfondness for Her Creation and lay the Edict of Squawk upon egg Earth and neither pity nor mercy would or could stay the tumult.

   She clearly loved Balls dearly, but in that tremulous, potential moment, She detested him like a vermin, like a maggot for being of the so-failed, so complacent, so vicious human race which didn’t even have the wisdom or courtesy to eat the corpses of the humans they slaughtered.

   Hen gazed with a blaze of amazing contempt at Balls, her giant turquoise claws tapping percussively on the diamond-tiled floor of the boudoir of the Hen Mansion of Heaven.

   Balls felt terrified, like a gnat, like a potato bug, an inconsiderable snack for a hungry and angry God.

   “The least they could do,” seethed a very unpleased God, Hen, “the least that Dickless Cheney could do is eat the people he arranges to have slaughtered and leave that many cows alone. I like cows better, by very far, than I like people these days. I am exceedingly disappointed in the very unsapiens homos and homas wasting the Earth of their birth, their glorious and beautyfraught, abundant earthright on bombmaking and gunmaking. I am sickened.” Her beak clicked with deitific enunciation.

   “You take a message back to egg Earth, Balls,” She said. “If they could interrupt their bloodbathing long enough to listen to their irate Creator, tell them their Mother, Hen, is ready to let the chickenfeces hit the fan if they don’t stop where they stand and observe with some calm and complete chickenwisdom the very unholy mess they have made. Not one thought more, not one cent more, ever, for destruction. All thinking, all acting, all wishing, all ways for construction from this hour forth. AHen, so it be.”

   Hen paused and pinned him with her glittering eye. “No yolk, Balls. I will chickenfece these bums to queendom come if they fail to quail. Reform is required. Pledge on the Holy Egg to deliver this message from your Mother, Hen, Balls Bazook, denizen of egg Earth. If they do not heed this exceeding warning, Balls, the Edict of Squawk will be invoked, have zero doubt.”

   She clicked her bright banana-yellow beak and turned away in deity-abrupt dismissal. But a tiny ruby feather fell at his feet as a talisman, a token of grace, of chickenhope. We could repair, we could forswear.

   Balls tenderly placed the tiny feather in the locket with the picture of  Fla Mingo which she didn’t know he carried on his farflung forays.

¹ On Hardball, Major General John Batiste, ret., said
“Donald Rumsfeld is still at the helm of the Department of Defense, which is absolutely outrageous. He served up our great military a huge bowl of chicken feces, and ever since then, our military and our country have been trying to turn this bowl into chicken salad. And it’s not working.”



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the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead


8 thoughts on “God is a giant Hen

  1. I guess secretary Chicken feces didn't read the fine print when he planned the invasion . He did volunteer for the thing. the least he could do is to serve on the frontline or venture out of the green zone when he visits.

  2. It's hard to view your own country without rosyhued specs, but as the veils fall away, I begin to get an appalling glimpse of how and with what dread the rest of the world views this colossal bully we call home.
    It's sobering. They must wonder why we do not rise up and DO something? At least be seen as against the Lies and the godsawful greed.
    The giant Hen has great aim with a rain of chickenfeces when She's been pushed too far. Their chickenfeced time will come, doubt it not.

  3. What an excellent idea, pog. Mr. Cheney should clearly be required to eat the collateral damage steak by steak. If you aren't man enough to eat what you get killed, no number of Humvees will restore your manly credibility. Everyone who “supports” this war should be required to eat the slain. There might be a few scraps of shrapnel they'd have to contend with, but real hunters are used to picking shot out of their venison.
    This would have the additional bonus of helping defray the costs of the war. We could bring the steaks and chops in flag-covered freeze boxes in through Dover. I wish the idea of Mr. Cheney eating the dead seemed more unlikely. I suspect that he actually might be chowing down on dead Iraqi kid-veal fricassee already. It might disgust you, but would you really be surprised?

  4. No, horribly, I wouldn't be surprised that Mr. Cheney feasts on his kill from Iraq, but then I was brought up in a culture which hohums eating its God's veal and drinking His Blood, so we USAs are used to severely necroweird.
    When I calculate the amount of God beefsteak consumed of a Sunday world wide, LJC must make Buddha seem like Twiggy. Not even Macdonalds serves this much flesh. The yearly gallonage of blud at 2.1 billion sips of sacred sangre per devotee per Sunday for 2000 years is a boggling number.
    When you're brought up in this kind of cannibalism atmosphere, our Vice President eating our enemies and brave soldiers doesn't seem a stretch really.

  5. Okay, can you transubstantiate your claims?
    I know that communion is based on the Last Supper, but is that really all they had to eat that night?

  6. Apparently it wasn't the Last Supper! Supping and sipping has been going on for centuries.
    Oughtn't they have had some dessert?
    Have you said to your family, “When I shuffle off the mortal coil, when you have pepperoni & pineapple pizza and Sprite[or whatever your family favorites are], take, eat, drink, my flesh and blood that you may remember me”?

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