The Balcony Dialogues – his riff

“Daddy…” the tiny child sniffled over Fido’s grave. “Why is Rover still alive? He’s older than Fido, it’s not fair.”
“Who?” Daddy absently responded. He wasn’t sure whether to wait for his wife or call Debbie, that hot widow…
“Danny’s dog.”
“The mutt?”
Dad sighed and kneeled, facing the boy. “Fido was a purebred. He didn’t have other breeds in him like Rover. They have a shorter life span. Mutts live longer because they are mixed.” He stood up and inhaled the southern air.

“That’s why, my son, you are interracial.”


2 responses to “The Balcony Dialogues – his riff

  1. Barnyard Shenanigans

    Once upon a barnyard, ol’ MacDonald had his cows, sheep, chicken, and pigs. All was well in the mudpits, henhouses, and pastures… until the rooster stumbled. That cock’s getting old, MacDonald said to himself. Time to hit the Chickens r us.

    A day later, as the farmer’s battered Ford crested the hill, more rattling than rolling, all the farm animal looked at the road with a premonition. Exiting the truck, a cock, full of youthful vim and vigor, nestled in the crook of his arm, the old farmer set him loose in the henhouse.

    The old rooster was incensed at the intervention: already the youngster was eyeing his favorite hens. Something would have to be done again.

    ‘Come, young cock, I have a proposition!’

    Full of strut and haughtiness, he came, crowing flirtations left and right to chattering hens who would blush through their plush if they could.

    The old cock hoped his years cocking around in the henhouse would pay off once more: ‘I challenge you to a race, several times around the henhouse.’

    The new cock, with the usual arrogance and recklessness associated with youth, accepted the challenge and the pair set off across the circuit. Round and round they went, breasting each other, neither really winning or losing. The old rooster, hoping his old ticker was not about to give up the ghost, put on an extra, desperate burst of speed.

    Pondering the memories of old, MacDonald looked up to widen his eyes in weary astonishment, and scrambled for the shotgun. He made for the henhouse the best he could on his arthritic joints, muttering, ‘Shit, not another gay rooster! Just my luck it’s the third one this week.’

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