A Caption, Please!

Would anyone have a caption for the following photo;

I took this photo in my backyard last week but am wondering what to call it.

 

Frank has Gone too Far

We all agree: Frank* has gone too far.

The testosterone-laden bird crossed the line in a big way, managing to offend everyone in the house amid loud cries for him to be made into soup.

The offense started simply enough. One of the hens had a full-black baby chick, so cute sunlight itself adored her. The hen, like any good mother, nurtured it under its wing, lovingly like only a mother could do.

The little boys, Tim and Toby, were excited by it. Nathanial, the chicken-man himself, was thrilled that his hen had brought a new chick into the world.

To the fourteen year old teenage girl, it was cuteness with wings.

Then it happened.

Frank, being the jerk that he is, and fearing the new bird might grow up to be a rooster and thus a threat to his world domination, killed it.

The Hen and Baby Chick in Question

Dead.

It gets even sadder. The mother hen still nurtured the dead chick, keeping it under its wing and protecting it from the elements. It’s as if she didn’t know the chick had died or she was living in a state of denial – one or the other.

The question now is: can Frank avoid the soup?

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*Frank is our rooster, read here  and here about him.

A Liberal Moment

I am fairly conservative in my political beliefs, but every once in a while I get in touch with a hidden tinge of liberalism still left in my soul, though I am always on the offensive against such things. Still, such a “liberal moment” (comparable to a Alzheimer’s moment) happened to me a week ago.

I walk into our kitchen and smell something cooking. Looking around, I see something is in the toaster, its red coils all a glow, but no one is around. I look in the toaster and – to my surprise – see of all things – can you believe it – a hot dog!

What can this mean?

Who would put a hot dog in my toaster!

I make a loud sound that can be interpreted as both shock and disgust in one, and in comes my son from the enclosed porch.

I say, “Who put a hot dog in the toaster!”

“I did,” he says, as if this were a common occurrence in Western civilization. “I read about it on the internet. This guy says they come out great that way.”

They come out great that way???

The hot dog pops. Pop, up it comes, a thin sliver of the dog showing its face to the world.

As if this were as normal as putting on his shoes, he puts it in a bun and dresses it up, and down it goes.

Have I failed as a parent?

A week later, however, my liberal self stages a coup. I am hungry, in a hurry, and there is a packet of hot dogs in the refrigerator. Can you guess what I did? I pop the dog in the toaster, throwing off all inhibitions and restraint, and lower the lever on the toaster, and down the sucker goes, into the depths.

We never did such a deed in the 1960s or 1970s, and I’ve never heard of such a thing, but there’s a time to be flexible, I guess; a time to wear Birkenstocks and eat granola and Feel the Bern. I am Feeling the Burn with my hot dog cooking away in the bowels of the toaster. Eventually it pops, but something is wrong: I can’t see it because it is laying on the bottom of the toaster, all sideways-ey. In order to not get electrocuted, I unplug the toaster and use a fork to shimmy the dog up, and up it comes, all hot and slightly burned and ready to eat.

I feel all California-like now eating my toaster-cooked hot dog, and my son is right: it’s not too bad, despite all my initial misgivings. This only proves that humankind’s horizons have broadened because of this internet, where you can get detailed diagrams on how to build a nuclear bomb, who fought the War of the Roses and why, and how to cook a hot dog in a toaster. There’s probably a Youtube video to walk through the process step by step for those fearful of change. It’s probably all there. I’m sure of it.

I do enjoy my Liberal Moment and might have many more. But it’s a slippery slope, and I have to watch it. It starts with hot dogs in the toaster and proceeds to the point where you feel victimized by society, and then you end up voting for Hilary, though you really no idea why she wants to be president, but vote for her you do anyway. It all starts with a hot dog in the toaster, so I tell all who read this and myself as well: be forewarned!