Velociworld

I Was Speaking of Cocks...

Wasn't I? Yes I was. I saw these poor caged bastards at the Pendergrass Flea Market:

At least I think they're roosters. I don't know from chickens, and I didn't lift any feathers to check.

By the by, although Pendergrass sells itself as Georgia's largest, that ain't no flea market. It's the fucking Wetback Mall. I must have seen 2,000 of 'em. I saw more damned Mexicans there than I did in Cozumel.

I was expecting antiques, baseball cards, gimcracks, gewgaws, you know, junk. What this was was unlicensed, hot off the trailer shit-for-all clothing, sold by Aztec rag merchants to the teeming hordes of chicken pluckers from the nearby poultry plants. I wanted to check for sales tax receipts and green cards, make a few citizen's arrests, but I didn't want the Cold Steel vendor to get caught up in the mass deportations, amigos.

Anyway, I figured Red Hat chickens were roosters, so I thought about getting one for Catfish for his laying hens. They only spoke gutter Spanish, however. Except for the one who kept cackling "We don't need no stinkin' cock-a-doodle-doo's, motherfuckers!" Cheech the Barnyard Pimp, I called him.

Maybe next time, Cat. The fetid smell of illegal, undocumented flatulence wore me down. So I went to El Jinete for lunch. Muy bueno, too!