Politics and facts you need to know: 2017

Cock My Doodle, or The Donald Revealed

A comic, roman a clef about The Donald. The format is based loosely on the book, Animal Farm" by George Orwell. And the punning, from Nicholas Udell, creator of the first English Comedy, Ralph Roister Doister.

CHAPTER I

Ronald the Rooster was known in his

neighborhood as The Ronald. He had a very normal, if

not affluent upbringing. His father was the lord and

master rooster of a prosperous farm near the North

Shore. It was not actually on the sought-after North

Shore, but inland and to the west — really, in Queens.

And not even near the water. To make matters worse,

in the late afternoon, the shadows from nearby

apartment towers cast a dark pall over the farm.

The Ronald would always tell everyone who

could be cajoled to listen to him that their farm was

really on the North Shore. This was the home of many

gentleman farms, where the grass was greener, the

trees taller and better shaped, and the animals brighter,

healthier, and most importantly wealthier. Regardless,

within the confines of their farm fence, Ronald, Sr. was

the supreme leader of his agricultural domain. He had

built it up from nothing.

When Ronald, Sr. jumped up on a fence or a

wagon and began crowing, every animal, every cow,

every chicken, horse, every dog and cat listened.

Ronald, Sr. was the alpha animal. They all knew that

they owed their prosperity and full life to Ronald, Sr.

No one could remember exactly how or why they

needed to picture him as their savior, but they always

nodded their heads in unanimous agreement when he

would yell out, “I am your leader and your savior.”

Cock-My-Doodle

These meetings would always conclude with

the Ronald, Senior Barnyard Song:

“Onward, ever onward,

Our Mighty Ronald,

We’ll ever follow you,

From victory to victory

Our colors are true blue

Yours is the path, yours is our vision

We lay down our lives

To serve, to serve, to serve.”

The Ronald, on the other hand, was a spoiled

rooster, a brat, taking for granted everything that his

father had provided for him on the farm. Even as a

chick, The Ronald was always climbing over the other

chickens in the brooding pen to eat as much grain as

possible. And he constantly got into food fights with

chicks in the brood. The Ronald found a way to spit his

seeds at his brothers and sisters so they always

avoided him, moving to the other side of the pen.

When he had tired of fighting and his stomach was

distended from over eating, The Ronald would creep

over to his corner and fall sound asleep.

The Ronald was also very adventurous. At a

very early age, he started flying to neighboring farms.

And beginning at the age of ten weeks of age, he

would fly all the way to North Shore Farms, where he

pretended he lived. But you could always count on him

to start fights in the barnyards by challenging other

roosters. He avoided harm by quickly flying away

when he anticipated that the barnyard was turning

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against him. This was very strange behavior. Every

other rooster his age would attempt to set up his

territory within his existing barnyard area. He also

found out how to start fights among other animals in

any barnyard to provide cover for his exploits.

Some days, The Ronald would visit three, four

or even six farms, taunting their roosters. And this is

where his reputation as a “womanizer” began to take

shape. In these barnyard encounters, Ronald, Jr. would

swoop down on any attractive hen — he only pursued

hens that were fully shaped and pleasing to the eye.

The Ronald knew that any alpha-male barnyard rooster

worth his salt would come after him with murder in his

heart ready to fight to the death to maintain his harem.

So he would circle a farmyard several times if he

needed to spot a young maiden hen beyond the

protective gaze of the farm’s alpha male rooster.

The Ronald’s sexual reputation was further

enhanced by his unusually red long comb on the top of

his head. This is a sign of sexual prowess as seen by

any attractive hen. The redder and larger the better. It

also portends bigger broods and better protection

against all danger.

The Ronald’s comb was not only large, it was

extraordinarily large, drooping over his face like a huge

pompadour from the 1950s.

But that sexual advantage, at least in The

Ronald’s mind, was seriously undercut by his

knowledge that he didn’t have a penis. In fact, hardly

any members of the bird family have penises. They

each have a cloaca, pronounced kloh-AY-kə, which is a

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small orifice at their rear ends. It is the only orifice at

the chicken’s rear end, which triples as an orifice for

defecation, urination and sexual encounters.

The Ronald was not aware of the details of his

penis-less existence, because he didn’t read, nor did

he ask for advice from others. He was just constantly

annoyed by his absence of a prick.

That anger was made all the more intense

because he saw with his own eyes that geese do have

pricks. “Why them and not me?” he asked himself

constantly.

Nature graciously provides most water fowl with

sexual appendages simply to guard against sperm

washing away when they copulate in a lake or stream.

But again, The Ronald was not a reader, nor a listener,

so he couldn’t view his life from a broader perspective.

He only knew that he didn’t have a prick, and they did!

This exploding anger led to his habit of taking

any opportunity to denigrate geese that foraged in his

farm’s pond.

“Prick wit, sausage head, wet fuckers,” and

other goose-directed disparagements constantly

circulated amongst the farms citizenry. It did result in a

few smiles, but all the animals knew where these ugly

remarks came from.

When chickens mate, the male climbs atop of

the hen, holding her head feathers in his beak to

steady himself and then he contorts his rear end down

to touch hers in what is known as a “cloaca kiss.”

While obviously acceptable to most chickens and birds,

it was seen as an insult to The Ronald. At that exact

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moment, the male’s sexual organ, the papilla, excretes

semen, which is instantly transferred to the hen’s

cloaca. The whole operation takes only five to ten

seconds. Not exactly the basis of a soft-porn novel.

The Ronald wanted a penis to show off his

masculinity — not only to the underlying hen, but to the

entire barnyard. And, of course, The Ronald saw himself as a

tall, dark movie idol, pursued by screaming young girls

with a noticeable, and throbbing bulge in his groin area.

Not a stupid little cloaca!

Simultaneously with these sexual adventures,

The Ronald also knew he had to make a place for

himself in the world. When he looked at his father’s

farm, he just shook his head. He knew that farming in

Queens was a lost cause even though his father had

built an empire on it. But that was yesterday, and The

Ronald was looking to tomorrow.

That is why he became fixated by the comings

and goings of Sly Cat. The Ronald knew Sly Cat was

really the brains behind his father’s farm. Sly Cat was

always there for any important meeting, at the right

hand of Ronald, Sr. Occasionally, Ronald Senior would

bend his head over to Sly Cat for clarification on some

important financial issue. Sly Cat would hold up his left

paw against Ronald Senior’s ear so no one could hear

what nugget of wisdom he was passing on. And then,

Sly Cat would turn his head away and stare off into the

distance.

More than anything, even more than a new

dalliance with some North Shore hen, The Ronald

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wanted to know the substance of these discussions.

He knew his father was successful, but he didn’t know

how he did it. Ronald began following Sly Cat around the

barnyard, but at a respectable distance. The Ronald

was a very proud rooster, and could not tolerate the

thought that he was out to copy his father’s ideas. And

God forbid that they were really Sly Cat’s ideas.

And out of these snoopings, The Ronald

developed a key strategy that he used throughout the

rest of his life.

And that was Denial and Distraction. He

remembered it because it was composed of two D’s.

Whenever he needed to invoke this strategy, he would

look down at his right wing. The right wing he called

Denial, and the left wing, Distraction. He painted them

with a red and blue spot from paint buckets in the barn.

The Ronald began exercising his Denial wing

concerning anything to do with his lack of a penis. He

believed he had one. In fact, he bragged about it.

Even though that induced snickering and eye-rolling

among the barnyard population. If stupid looking geese

could have penises, why couldn’t he, why shouldn’t he!

He flapped his left wing several times.

The Ronald found that if he then flapped his left Distraction wing,

an attractive hen would soon come into view.

The Ronald’s reputation grew by leaps and bounds, but

unfortunately, it was not a good reputation. Ronald, Sr.

continued to receive complaints from North Shore

farms about The Ronald’s sexual exploits and his

mischievous behavior, which upset the hundred year

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old rituals of North Shore owners and their beloved

animal stock.

Ronald, Sr. brought in at great expense General

Franklin, a war horse with impressive medals

recognizing his heroism during deadly battles in France

during World War I. General Franklin was old now, but

his stature was not diminished. Erect and disciplined,

he engendered respect and a feeling of patriotism in

any crowd of animals through which he marched.

When General Franklin arrived at the gates of Ronald,

Sr.’s farm, all the animals began chattering about what

it all meant. Oliver turned to Daisy in the horse stall.

“Why do you think General Franklin is here? Do we

have to worry?

Daisy looked down and saw Sly Cat sitting on a bunch

of hay. And so she leaned down, and Sly Cat

whispered in her ear. Daisy smiled, and then laughed.

“What’s going on,” Oliver asked excitedly. “You won’t

believe it, said Daisy. He’s here to train The Ronald!

So we’re all going to have a laugh tomorrow.

The day broke, and there was General Franklin,

standing at attention in the middle of the barnyard.

Standing behind him, or rather strutting around him

was The Ronald.

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All of the animals had been assembled in rows at the

end of the yard. The horses, cows, sheep and dogs.

They were all smiling and laughing because of what

they saw.

T
he Ronald had a set of leather puttees strapped

around his legs. Similar to what U.S. soldiers wore in

The Great War. And he had some kind of a necklace

with a medal hanging down from it. It was metal and

sparkled in the morning sunlight.

Soon enough, Ronald, Sr. appeared with a ceremonial

sword strapped around his waist. He stood at

attention, facing General Franklin and The Ronald.

“Atten-SHUN!” Ronald, Sr. exclaimed. General

Franklin straightened up a little, but he was already

standing at attention.

The assembled parade consisted of General Franklin

in front, Oliver and Daisy lined up in the second row,

followed by The Ronald and behind him a brood of fifty

of Ronald, Sr’s finest chickens.

It was obviously Ronald, Sr.’s objective to show The

Ronald’s leadership qualities by having him lead the

brood of chickens.

Closing out the parade was the perennially aloof Bernie

Meanders, the donkey. A necklace and medal had

been laid over his shoulders, but it looked totally out of

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place because of Bernie's standoffish demeanor and

the impish twinkle in his eyes.

The rest of the farm animals were assembled as

spectators in a ring around the barnyard. Right down to

three generations of barn mice that had taken up a

viewing position in the protective shadow of the barn

foundation. And they had brought with them a

generous supply of grain.

The Ronald didn’t respond to his father’s command,

but just paced back and forth, swinging his medal and

necklace as he went. And admiring his new leather

puttees.

“
Atten-SHUN!!” Ronald, Sr. snapped, directing his

voice to The Ronald.

“Forwad-MARCH.” General Franklin moved out

smartly, his head erect and limbs responding in unison

to Ronald, Sr’s commands.

“Laayft, Right, Laayft, Right, Laayft, Right.”

But the rest of the parade didn’t move. While most of

the marchers were focused on the splendidly attired

Ronald, Sr., The Ronald’s eyes were focused on a

gamely hen two rows behind him.

Ronald flew to the attack, and the column march was

overcome by a flapping of wings and squawking. The

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commotion broke the ranks of the assembled chickens,

and the whole barnyard soon became bedlam.

The Ronald took advantage of the situation and

mounted several more hens in quick succession.

Ronald, Sr., defeated, walked General Franklin to his

stall in the barn.

Bernie Meanders smiled knowingly, walked to the

assembled group of mice in the barn foundation’s

shadow and began talking to them about his favorite

topic, the wide disparity in the lives of most of the

barnyard animals, as compared to their human

masters.

It was a day of awakening for Bernie Meanders. He

stood taller, he stared off into the distance as if he was

witnessing a vision. And his braying became much,

much louder.

Ronald, Sr. could not take this humiliation any longer.

He dispatched The Ronald to a select military school,

General Poteen’s School for Young Leaders, located in

Greenport Long Island, far away from the temptations

of New York City. Students were required to follow a

strict military regimen throughout the day. There was

no free time off, closing off any potential problems for

the Ronald.

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Of course, The Ronald did find ways to leave campus

on several occasions, and letters of reprimand were

dispatched to a worrisome Ronald, Sr.

The Ronald, however, did like the General Poteen

uniforms, and somehow was able to be elected to the

school’s envied Poteen Color Guard. He marched in

many parades around the North Shore. It was one of

the highlights of his General Poteen training.

The other was the development of a keen sense of

people’s animal instincts, starting with the basic, “Fight

or Flight” paradigm.

The Ronald developed this skill by observing how

cadets rose or fell in the esteem of their peers — and

their drill seargents. And he developed a quick reflex

action for going at a potential rival’s jugular, so to

speak, in daily interactions.

Years passed. In the beginning, Ronald, Sr and his

son didn’t even so much as talk to each other, and they

avoided each other’s glance in the barnyard. But after

a few years at ‘The Poteen,’ as they called it, The

Ronald realized his father’s leadership abilities and his

sense of a life-changing vision.

The Ronald started his career by creating a unique, but

low class form of rooster contests. Normally, these

contests were among just a particular breed, such as

the Old English Game birds. With very large black tail

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feathers, the Old English Games are one of the most

popular birds for showing off in competitions.

But The Ronald had another idea, which shook the

chicken competition culture to its core. And that was a

competition based solely on the size of a rooster’s red

comb. He didn’t care about the rooster’s background

and provenance. His judges only measured the size of

a rooster’s comb.

Of course, the old-line chicken breeders on the North

Shore of Long Island were horrified by the prospect of

some commoner, some upstart grabbing the headlines

and the attention of the chicken breeding world.

The idea had great crowd appeal, and it was easy to

judge. The Ronald was helped immeasurably by Sly

Cat in setting up these contests. These secret

conversations took place late at night in the rafters of

the big barn.

And headlines did in fact start appearing with regularity.

But while The Ronald’s shakeup did attract great

publicity, it angered the old line chicken breeders. The

Ronald was definitely persona non grata on the North

Shore. He was regularly booed if he tried to fly into

any North Shore barnyard to mount any of its

attractive, shapely hens.

Late one night, in his rambling conversation with Sly

Cat in the secret confines of the big barn, The Ronald

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came up with a huge idea. He was shaking his

feathers from head to toe with the thought.

Why not move his rooster competitions to the sunny

shores of New Jersey. In fact, why not move it to the

fast-paced world of the Atlantic Casinos. And why not

make it a regular event at the “Big World Casino,” in

the heart of Atlantic City?

Sly Cat slowly shook his head in the affirmative, and a

knowing grin spread across his face.

Cock-My-Doodle

CHAPTER II

Months went by as Sly Cat and The Ronald built their

new business opportunity called: “The Great Cock

Competition.”

The Ronald and Sly Cat knew that the name would

garner many newspaper and TV headlines, which

would draw crowds and fill their pockets.

They also knew that The Ronald’s rooster-comb

competitions might also spawn cock fights. In either

case, there was gambling money to be made.

Sly Cat set about to make all the arrangements to set

up The Ronald’s new empire. Sly Cat had a few mob

contacts along the Jersey Shore, and soon, he was

able to tell The Ronald that they had a date for their

first engagement at Big World Casino.

In the month of May, just as Atlantic City was beginning

to take on summer hues and temperatures, they

traveled to see the Don of Atlantic City.

He was called Fat Louie, a huge, 1,000 pound pig, with

scars to prove his name. His close associates called

him, “FT” for short.

Fat Louie had sent a stretch limo to The Ronald, Sr.

Farm to pick up him up. The Ronald was accompanied

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by Sly Cat and Svetlana, a graceful, Andalusian hen

with stately carriage and delicately blue-laced plumage.

She turned heads whenever she walked through a

barnyard.

The Ronald loved to show her off. Svetlana definitely

had regal bearing, and in The Ronald’s mind, it was his

way of getting even for North Shore rebuffs in the past.

Svetlana’s appearance on the scene eliminated The

Ronald’s need to mount hens on the N.S.

The limo was driven by a very large pig with dark

glasses and a black leather suit. He didn’t talk. He just

nodded his head, motioning to the back of the limo

where Sly Cat, Svetlana and The Ronald entered.

The Ronald and Sly Cat sat together, with Svetlana

sitting by herself in an alluring pose in the seat

opposite.

The car sped through the streets of Queens and soon

found itself on the GW Bridge. The Ronald couldn’t

help but be impressed by the view. All of the great city

of New York laid out before him. He saw this trip as a

major change in his life.

The car wound its way across the highways of New

Jersey and then onto I-95 and opening up before him,

the silhouette of The Big Casino. His heart was

pounding. Even Sly Cat looking excited.

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The car shot down an exit ramp and parked right in

front of The Big Casino entrance.

It was now early September, and coincidentally, the

month in which the old “Miss America” contests had

been held in Atlantic City.

Two very large pigs, dressed just like the driver came

out to escort the them to the tower conference room on

the 30th floor.

They saw a very long table with at least a dozen pigs,

all dressed identically in black leather suits and dark

glasses. At the head of the table sat “Fat Louie.” A

huge presence — also in a black leather suit and very

large dark glasses.

Fat Louie was bent over a stack of papers. He signed

the last page and then handed it off to his right-hand

goon, who then passed it on down the table.

Sly Cat leaned over to The Ronald and whispered, “It’s

our contract.”

The Ronald turned toward him, a little concerned. “You

know I’m a big picture guy. That’s a big pile of papers

to be signing.

“Don’t worry,” replied Sly Cat. “I wrote it all. It’s going

to make us rich.

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And indeed, Sly Cat was right. The contract laid out a

huge franchising deal that would sponsor hundreds of

“The Great Ronald Cock Competitions” all across the

country.

The Ronald grabbed the 60-page contract document

and signed it with a flourish. For this purpose, he used

a large quill pen that Svetlana had given to him from

the tail feather of a prize winning Andalusian cock —

Alexander the Great.

In a mating frenzy, Svetlana had removed Alexander’s

great tail feather without missing a beat.

The contract that The Ronald held in his now sweating

claws stated that anyone could “buy” an exclusive

franchise for their area, and that would give them

exclusive rights to the name, “The Great Ronald Cock

Competitions.” The contract promised all kinds of

support from The Ronald’s organization in return.

The price of entry to buy a “The Great Cock

Competition” franchise was $30,000. And both The

Ronald and Sly Fox were counting on hundreds, if not

thousands, of people throughout the US on buying

franchises. “Dreams of sugarplums danced in their

heads.”

Fat Louie smiled at him from across the table. The

room was dark, but The Ronald could see that Fat

Louie wore a black leather cap with a banner which

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read, “Make Cocks Great Again.” The Ronald turned to

Sly Fox, who returned a knowing smile and whispered,

“All in a day’s work.”

The occasion was highlighted with a cocktail party and

several pig troughs filled with truffles, a highly potent

aphrodisiac for female pigs that prompts the female

pig’s “standing” reflex. No wonder pigs are so adept at

rooting out truffles among tree roots.

The riotous noises emanating from adjoining rooms

attested to the power of the truffles.

Meanwhile, Sly Cat and The Ronald left the room to go

to the main ballroom downstairs to watch the first

“Great Ronald Cock Competition.”

They were not joined by the monstrous Fat Louie who

excused himself for a few minutes to join his fellow

truffle partygoers.

The ballroom was filled with roosters from all different

families of chicken broods. Barnevelders, Campines,

Rhode Island Reds and even the popular but

(American Poultry Association) APA-shunned Easter

Eggers, which lay green, blue and even pink eggs that

children delight in during the Easter season.

The Ronald was happy to see that his competition was

inclusive and any breed could be entered. And that

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very moment was when The Ronald came up with his

now famous slogan,

“Make Cocks Great Again.”

Of course, they all had very large red combs, which

they showed off as they strutted by the judges stand.

But length was the most important factor.

The Ronald began shifting his weight from one leg to

another because of what seemed like to him and

endless parade of aspiring cocks marching up the the

judging stand with their nervous handlers.

Of course, his attention then began to focus on

attractive hens in the audience. He began winking at

them. And he sent several of TR’s big goons out to

give bouquets of roses to several of these attractive

hens that he intended to see later that night. Actually,

about six in all.

The final moment arrived. The winner was a Rhode

Island Red with an enormous comb. His name was

Barney Longcock. His comb was even longer than The

Ronald’s. And redder, if that was possible.

But it wasn’t a particularly pretty sight. His comb hung

way down over his head, and it had two lumps at the

bottom, which reminded one of a sack of gonads.

When judge Folderol awarded the prize, The Ronald,

of course, clapped furiously and smiled widely to the

adoring crowd. But he did raise his eyebrows when he

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turned toward Sly Cat. Sly Cat didn’t dare but look

straight ahead.

The Ronald walked over to Barney Longcock for the

publicity shots and TV coverage. He put his left wing

around the winner, and held up his right wing, saying,

“Remember, we’re going to make Cocks Great Again.”

The crowed cheered and the cameras rolled and

clicked.

The Ronald had finally found his way and created his

own pathway to success. Independent of his father.

And at that point, Sly Cat stood up and gave a

barbershop quartet of roosters, who posed in the back

of a pickup truck to the downbeat to The Ronald’s new

song that Sly Cat had written:

“Make Cocks Great Again,

Don’t ever hide it,

Take pride in it,

Make Cocks Great Again.”

At the conclusion of the Great Cock Competition, every

car, every limo and every pickup truck exiting the

Atlantic City garage had a bumper sticker that read,

“Make Cocks Great Again.”

And many wore black leather caps with the “Make

Cocks Great Again” inscription. The Ronald found out

later that TR had been selling them to the adoring

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crowd at a very health profit. Upon hear of that

treasonous move, The Ronald turned to Sly Cat and

said, “Make sure that son of a bitch doesn’t make

another dime on our slogan. We get every penny on

that. It’s ours, IT’S OURS. Sly Cat nodded solemnly.

And images of those bumper stickers and the caps

went viral, making The Ronald’s new idea a national

brand. The money literally started pouring in. Sly Fox

had to set up an entire department to handle all the

checks, cash and credit card payments from admirers.

There was so much money that The Ronald decided to

buy a farm. Or rather to set up a farm from unused

property on the north side of the Whitestone Bridge so

that all travelers leaving Long Island and crossing over

into The Bronx would see it.

The Ronald used his flair for self-publicity by erecting a

huge statue of himself that was the size of a five-story

building.

And in front of the statue was a huge banner that

spelled out, “The Incredible Ronald Farm . . . Make

Cocks Great Again.”

The Ronald had his pig-in-black leather chauffeur drive

him over the Whitestone every day. He said to himself,

“Just think, I am just one of millions of people who see

my farm every day.”

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The Ronald knew that the bridge traffic only totaled

about 125,000 daily, but the figure didn’t have any

punch to it. It wasn’t a headline, and never would be.

“Millions” really captured The Ronald’s vision of what it

should be, what he hoped it would be.

And “millions” is the figure he used in a dedication

ceremony for the new farm later that day. He felt that

was the true picture of how things should be. “Millions.”

Otherwise, what are you going to say? 125,000s. That

would be silly, and furthermore, no reporter would use

the number. If The Ronald knew anything, he knew PR

and how to use it to his advantage.

The Ronald’s victory became complete when he vowed

never to mount a hen on the North Shore again. After

all, the hens in Atlantic City had a lot more to offer. He

could attest to that personally.

The new farm became the seat of great activity —

publicity sessions, photo shoots, visits by local

politicians. Of course, the North Shore farmers were

furious by what they considered to be the

commercialization of the Whitestone Bridge. And the

brazen, poor taste of The Ronald. They felt that his

mere presence was an affront to the stature of every

Long Island chicken farmer.

It became a badge of honor to denigrate the “Donald

Duck Farm” as Long Island farmers came to call it.

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Laughter and derision were the hallmarks of any L.I.

farmer conversation about their new neighbor.

And sure enough, the widely read L.I. Inquiring Mind

put the story of the Ronald’s new farm on page one.

The headline read, “Grotesque bridge farm owner, The

Ronald, expects to see millions of viewers daily.”

The editor, Sam Pratfall, always smiled when

questioned whether the term, “grotesque” referred to

the farm or the farm owner.

The next day, when The Ronald and Sly Fox were

gloating over the success of their opening, The Ronald

tapped on the headline of the L.I. Examiner.

He leaned over to Sly Cat and said, “Make sure this

guy is never invited to anything I do in the future. And

by the way, let’s see if we can disrupt his business

model.

Business models became the new fascination of The

Ronald’s. They were a roadmap, and that is what The

Ronald needed to grow his empire at this point.

He was sure he had a winner. And that was appealing

to the pickup-truck population. These were the little

guys who went to work every day, and got less and

less for their labors with every passing year.

Sly Cat and The Ronald had a long, long talk in the

rafters of the barn one night. They knew they needed

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an enemy, something people and animals could get

made about.

At about 3 am in the morning, they finally hit on the

idea. It was none other than Frank Perphew, the

chicken magnate.

Accordingly, Sly Cat set up a fake news site that

flooded the internet with “alternate” news stories about

the hated Frank Perphew. And they made front page

stories at all checkout counter tabloids.

Dozens of cats sat at laptops churning out these

stories. The cats, oddly enough, all looked like Sly Cat.

They were jet black with green eyes and were very

self-contained. The keyboards never stopped filling up

social media sites and tabloid columns with stories

such as these:

“SEX SCANDAL AT PERPHEW FARMS”

"THE REAL AND SCARY FACTS ABOUT THE

CHICKENS YOU EAT FROM PERPHEW FARMS”

“CHICKENS TORTURED AT PERPHEW FARMS”

“FIVE FACTS YOU NEED TO KNOW BEFORE YOU

SWALLOW ANOTHER FORK-FULL OF PERPHEW

CHICKENS”

Cock-My-Doodle

“SEX SLAVES CHAINED TO STAKES AT PERPHEW

FARMS”

The Ronald also countered Perphew farms by

advertising the fact that The Ronald Farm produced

“Free Range” chickens. At least that is what it looked

like near the huge rooster statue of The Ronald. A

fenced-in area with hundreds of chickens running

about.

But what wasn’t seen from the road, behind an

impenetrable fence of trees and shrubs, was a

monstrous sized factory-farm barn with thousands and

thousands of chickens. There were no windows, only

fans on one side of the building that brought in enough

air to keep them from suffocating. The chickens were

crowded in amongst themselves, with no room to walk.

Sly Cat publicity team used the photos of the so-called

Free Range chickens at the front of the barnyard to

influence consumers and grocery chains along key

markets on the East Coast.

But the chickens that were slaughtered at a second

barn and shipped out were from the factory-farm floor.

For these unfortunate creatures, death was preferable

to living in such tortured conditions.

The Sly Cat publicity team also knew that it would pay

off to appeal to the public’s sense of patriotism. So

every morning, a small band of pigs in military style

Cock-My-Doodle

uniforms marched out to a huge flagpole and raised a

100-foot US flag to the tune of The Star Spangled

Banner.

Whitestone Bridge traffic would slow to a crawl as

commuters rubbernecked this daily show, which by the

way often made its way to the front pages of local

papers, courtesy of the photos of the The Ronald show

that the Sly Cat publicity team supplied.

Sly Cat had tried to arrange an exclusive interview

with Richard Big of the News of New York about the

Whitestone Bridge success. But the best he could

manage was an interview with Malcolm Backspace a

stringer for the local paper, ‘LI Inquiring Mind.’

The Roger was in his office, sitting high on a perch

behind his desk. He always chose this arrangement so

he would be at least two feet above any office visitor.

Even though The Ronald was disappointed, he rose to

the occasion. “This is the 8th Wonder of the World,”

The Ronald crowed. Nobody anywhere in Manhattan

has thought of doing anything like this.” Malcolm

Backspace nodded silently. (The Ronald was always

measuring himself against Manhattan in every way

imaginable.)

Backspace’s nodding acknowledgements soon turned

into a string of dozing nods. But The Ronald droned

Cock-My-Doodle

on, and on, highlighted by a frenzy of wing clapping to

underscore points along the way.

During a pause in The Ronald's tirade, Backspace

handed The Ronald a wrinkled page from his paper,

which trumpeted a headline: ‘Barney Longcock

Announces Candidacy, denouncing The Ronald’s Dirty

Dealing.’ “Do you have any comment?” inquired

Backspace quietly.

The Ronald jumped off his stool and attacked

Backspace, pecking him ferociously. Backspace

covered his face and ran out of The Ronald’s office.

The Ronald then buzzed for Sly Cat and demanded a

PR campaign to undermine Longcock’s candidacy for

Mayor of Wetlawn, LI, the headquarters town for The

Ronald’s operations. The Ronald valued loyalty over

any other attributes, and bridled at the though that

Barney Longcock used his newly found celebrity status

that The Ronald had given to him to attack The Ronald

in the newspapers. And to have the nerve to run for

mayor in HIS town, was unforgivable, dastardly,

traitorous!

Making the humiliation more complete, The News of

New York soon picked up the story and ran it on its first

page, with a headline: “THE RONALD, OUTCOCKED.”

That story was followed by another in two days about

the smashing of the storefront windows of the LI

Cock-My-Doodle

Inquiring Mind newspaper being shattered by a

marauding band of black-leather-clad pigs.

All the commotion was not overlooked by the careful

eye of the donkey, Bernie Meanders, who had bolted

the Ronald, Sr. farm and struck out on his own. He

had become something of a political minstrel, going

from farm to farm, exchanging his political point of view

for hay and bedding.

He took with him a roll of newspaper clippings about

The Ronald’s exploits, which included a lot of negative

headlines. And stories about the devastating effects

brought upon the animal kingdom by the rapacious

control and exploitation of the human race.

Cock-My-Doodle

CHAPTER III THE MOVE TO MANHATTAN

Sly Cat and the Ronald publicity team made the term,

“Make Cocks Great Again,” a household name, even

though many of the franchisee owners were left holding

the bag, and it was a smelly bag indeed. Unkept

promises of support and publicity and even supposed

personal appearances by The Ronald Himself.

The publicity, of course, went to The Ronald’s head.

He truly believed he was invincible. He loved to read

about his exploits in the newspapers, and he would

read the stories out loud in his high-pitched cackle

voice to anyone he could convince to sit and listen.

One night, while dining at Manhattan’s exclusive 22

Club with Svetlana, Sly Cat and Fat Frank, he drew a

sketch on one of the restaurant’s famous linen napkins.

Now first of all, the 22 Club hardly ever allowed

animals to dine in the main dining room, but The

Ronald had achieved such notoriety at this point that

the establishment felt that they could overlook such an

irregularity.

Club 22 owners ignored The Ronald’s irregularities

because they smelled money. It was new money, and

they weren’t proud of it, but they dealt with it.

Little did they know, however of the limitless bounds of

The Ronald’s ego and need for acclamation. The

Ronald admired the famous Frederic Remington

Cock-My-Doodle

bronze sculptures that lined the room. Many were

traded in lieu of cash to pay client’s enormous bar bills

in the height of the Great Depression.

The Ronald wanted desperately to peck at one, just to

get the feel of a bronze Remington statuary. But The

Ronald really wanted to add to the collection with a

bronze likeness of himself. He couldn’t get it out of his

mind. He could see it there, gleaming.

The Club 22 diner was quite an affair. Fat Louie

required two chairs to accommodate his vast bulk. The

Ronald’s soon to be announced plan would need

financing, and Fat Louie had plenty of that from his

Atlantic City operations. Sly cat needed two pillows to

raise himself to the table top, and of course, Svetlana

was perfectly coiffed and sat like a super model, slowly

scanning the room for celebrities.

With a sweep of his left, distraction wing, The Ronald

swept dishes and plates crashing to the floor to give

room for him to spread out his vision on a Club 22

napkin.

He drew a sharp black line down the spine of the

napkin. “That,” he proclaimed, is 5th Avenue. And then

he drew a line across it. “And this is 56th Street. And

this corner is where we are going to put The Ronald’s

world headquarters building.”

Cock-My-Doodle

Fat Louie frowned and turned his head to The Ronald.

“Isn’t that where the Nonwit Teller building is now?

The Ronald threw back his head and crowed, "Not any

more". Much to the displeasure of diners at nearby

tables.

“Nonwit lived up to its name. They were losers.

LOSERS, The Ronald squawked. They are bankrupt,

and so were their ideas about marketing. We are

going to show them, and everyone, how to be

incredibly rich and successful.”

Diners at nearby tables were now expressing their

great displeasure at The Ronald’s negative comments

about the cherished institution of upper 5th Avenue,

Noonwit Teller. It was the passing of a great age. And

they held it in great respect, which is more than they

could say for the upstart Ronald.

The maitre d’ was summoned, and soon, screens were

set up around the Ronald’s table.

But the Ronald was not deterred. He streched higher

and crowed, "Fat Louie, you are going to bankroll us

into the history books. (very few people ever dared

address fat Louie by his nickname. Unless you had an

offer that would make him smile. And this was it.)

Cock-My-Doodle

The Ronald pulled out a rolled up architectural drawing

and laid it down on the napkin smack in the middle of

5th Avenue and 56th St.

The Ronald got really excited and jumped up on the

table.

"This is going to be big. Really big! In fact, in all the

history of New York City, there has never been a more

exciting building. Everyone is going to be talking about

it."

Everyone leaned in to take a look Sly Cat, Fat Louie

and Svetlana. They all noticed a huge banner that ran

up the side of the building proclaiming it to be "THE

RONALD TOWER.” This was the culmination of
The Ronald's long-ago dream of becoming the
King of 5th Avenue. The KIING. Nobody had ever
done it before, and everybody, everybody will be
talking about it.

Politics and facts you need to know

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