Mati ayam untuk saya
(Dead chickens for me)
I consider myself a good man. A man of peace. Of course, we are all righteous in our own minds, but I wish no ill will on other living creatures. Not going as far as to say I wouldn't hurt the fly on my head, but the fly would definitely have to provoke. So it pains me to say that I have come to believe that the only good chicken is a dead chicken. These ugly creatures have passed the pale. They are walking alarm clocks but not the alarm clocks that wake you when you need to be woken but broken psychotic alarm-clocks that sound their alarm over and over again with no reason and certainty no rhyme. Ringing again the moment you drift off to sleep, crazy coo-coo alarm clocks on steroids with fifty thousand watt rock-and-roll amplifiers. Were they to crow at the sunrise it would be a charm; a mild reminder of our agrarian past but these devilish birds know nothing of daybreak. Their screeches are as random as a traffic accident and just as loud. They gather secretly in the middle of the night plotting for the right time and then each of them in turn proclaim that they are the loudest creature ever produced by god or nature. I'm sure in their small bird brains they believe that they are the sole recipients of a godly creation or at least the final result of a million years evolution. Like Muhammad Ali, they strut and bob and weave raising their voices in boast of their own existence, each loudly proclaiming their place at the top of the world, but where Ali was one they are an army, every one louder than the next not satisfied with calling to the other but all answering louder than the last until the walls of my humble house shake with the combined cacophony of their blood curdling calls. It's a horrible sound, a broken sound; worse than the yelp of a beaten dog, the wails of a crying baby, beyond even unclipped fingernails on a math-class blackboard. When finally they have driven me, bleary eyed and sleep deprived from my bed, they come into my small garden and prance about hither and yon, in one more victorious taunt against my better angels and I look at them through blood shot and murderous eyes and think to myself that Colonel Sanders was a great man and fried or baked it matters not to me but certainly the world would be better were they all to take their place on my dining table.