The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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I was up at a farm on the North End recently and a couple of us homesteaders got to swapping chicken stories. Roosters, mostly. You think maybe chickens are silly little cacklers scratching up worms and grubs for dinner or they’re benign little birds dropping eggs for your breakfast, you haven’t been properly introduced to the male of the species.

Maybe you’ve heard the expression Cock of the Walk? That’s these bad boys. Vicious attackers of the unwary. Aggressive, fearless birds that come at you with beak and spurs. They’ll open you up before you can say chicken cacciatore. And you’ll never turn your back on one again, trust me.

Well, we swapped a few whoppers before Professor Bob mentioned he’d been up to Darrington for the cockfights awhile back, a couple hundred Tarheels betting their moonshine earnings on birds bred for vicious violence. When I first came to Camano Island, the cops were busy busting cockfighting rings in Stanwood and Gomorrah. I know what you’re thinking: didn’t this sort of bloodsport die out in the 1800’s? And the answer is apparently NO. Down south where I grew up, they fight dogs in Dixie. Yeah, it seems barbaric. But … we still got boxing and now we got kickboxing. And if you want mayhem, tune in some Sunday to NFL football. They’ll study us someday like we were Romans, professional gladiators. Only real difference is we figured how to make it profitable.

Maybe the cockfighters need to sell television rights. Line up some advertisers. Sell beer and hotdogs. Make it respectable for more than the Tarheels and a few UW professors. On the other hand, maybe it wouldn’t generate a mass audience. After all, we got politics now 24/7 if you like your violence vicious. Course, maybe they should sell beer and peanuts and advertising rights. Monday Night Congressional Cockfights. Probably take a few months to balance the budget with the profits. Think about it is all I’m asking.

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I was up at a farm on the North End recently and a couple of us homesteaders got to swapping chicken stories.  Roosters, mostly.    You think maybe chickens are silly little cacklers scratching up worms and grubs for dinner or they’re benign little birds dropping eggs for your breakfast, you haven’t been properly introduced to the male of the species.

Maybe you’ve heard the expression Cock of the Walk?  That’s these bad boys.  Vicious attackers of the unwary.  Aggressive, fearless birds that come at you with beak and spurs.  They’ll open you up before you can say chicken cacciatore.  And you’ll never turn your back on one again, trust me.

Well, we swapped a few whoppers before Professor Bob mentioned he’d been up to Darrington for the cockfights awhile back, a couple hundred Tarheels betting their moonshine earnings on birds bred for vicious violence.  When I first came to Camano Island, the cops were busy busting cockfighting rings in Stanwood and Gomorrah.  I know what you’re thinking: didn’t this sort of bloodsport die out in the 1800’s?  And the answer is apparently NO.  Down south where I grew up, they fight dogs in Dixie.  Yeah, it seems barbaric.  But … we still got boxing and now we got kickboxing.  And if you want mayhem, tune in some Sunday to NFL football.  They’ll study us someday like we were Romans, professional gladiators.  Only real difference is we figured how to make it profitable.

Maybe the cockfighters need to sell television rights. Line up some advertisers.  Sell beer and hotdogs.  Make it respectable for more than the Tarheels and a few UW professors.  On the other hand, maybe it wouldn’t generate a mass audience.  After all, we got politics now 24/7 if you like your violence vicious.  Course, maybe they should sell beer and peanuts and advertising rights.    Monday Night Congressional Cockfights.  Probably take a few months to balance the budget with the profits.  Think about it is all I’m asking.

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