My Bane

It was Ben Franklyn I think who said “Beer is proof that god loves us.” Or something along those lines. Theological issues aside, being a 24 year old male, I’m inclined to agree! (cheers!) But if Beer is proof of God’s love, then the devil has devised something even more devious to prove his hate. The Rooster.

I recall growing up seeing cartoon images of this noble creature sitting atop the barn, watching diligently for the coming of the new day. The rooster, lord of the barnyard, herald of Apollo, would cock-his-doodle-doo the moment the golden life giving orb crested the horizon. The humble farmer, sound asleep next to his homely wife, would cheerfully awaken at the call and begin an honest days work, the wife none the wiser.

Propaganda.

Lies.

The truth is much more chilling and not near as noble. For starters, the farmer, awaken from blissful slumber would be angry. The rooster, never content to simply call his message from the safety of the barn roof, dwells in the lowly places, waiting in ambush. He sneaks his feathery way under the farmer’s very window, to ensure this harpy’s cry will reach its unsuspecting victim with maximum effect. And like the cry of the harpy, the farmer, sailing happily through slumberland, is drawn to the smashing rocks of wakefulness. All the happy thoughts and dreams, all his hopes and aspirations, are doomed form the moment this foul foul begins his days work. Yes, this bringer of doom is a master at his craft, finding the perfect angle, the ideal pitch, the precise moment when your dreams are sweetest and thus you are most vulnerable. Ripped from Slumberland, Shanghaied back to bitter reality, the dreamer is left to chase the wisps of fading drams.

And the real tragedy of it all, the fact that changes this simple event from a mere nuisance to an out right act of evil, is that the sun, that sweet, warm, wonderful orb, is still an hour from rising.

I have no love for the rooster.