The Colonel was torn over the appropriate title for this post. "Bombs Away" was a first thought. "First Fruit" crossed the ever-widening synaptic gaps in the amorphous goo lying fallow in the dark and largely infertile recesses of the Colonel's brain-housing group. "Opening Ova" richochetted randomly in the Colonel's cranial cavity.
The Colonel settled on... well, the memories of the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon aren't that short...
As the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon (and whose memories aren't short) will remember, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel started a chicken herd back on the first weekend after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox. In those early halcyon days of chick wrangling, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel were concerned that our chicken herd would be an all-hen harem, sans rooster.
Turns out those fears were ever-so slightly unfounded.
Actually, worry over the presence of a rooster in the Eegeebeege Chicken Herd turned gradually to concern for the rooster ratio and finally to dismay at the realization that of the surviving original seven Rhode Island Reds ALL were roosters, save one.
The only thing that matches this circumstance for embarrassment was the Rebels blowing a 21 point halftime lead this past weekend against our FCS home opener practice patsy and letting them take us to double overtime. And, since we were in such a giving mood this weekend, we decided to give them the game.
The only way last Saturday could have been any more embarrassing would have been if the idiot administrators at my alma mater had decided this would have been the best weekend to introduce the new mascot. We still don't know what will replace the irreplacable Colonel Reb, but this Colonel will bet you a punch in the jaw, and give you fifteen minutes to assemble witnesses, that whatever the new mascot is, it will be more embarrassing than flatulence in the choir loft.
But, the Colonel digresses.
With a rooster-to-hen ratio of six to one, never has more hope been placed on the feathered shoulders of any chicken as have been laid (pun intended) on those of one Rhode Island Red hen, callsign: Olivia.
More hope than a fifteen-year-old who just spent his last five dollars on a jar of acne cream.
Doug Flutie had less hope riding on his last pass in the '84 Boston College-Miami game.
This afternoon, amid much cackling and and scratching in the hen house integral to the Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, Olivia turned hope to elation. Never, in the annals of barnyard fowl, has the arrival of one egg been the cause for such celebration.
If there had been goal posts in the Colonel's backyard, he and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda would have torn them down.
We'll probably have it bronzed.