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BREAKING NEWS … !

20 Apr

BREAKING NEWS: Animal Federation employs MOAB* to send message to imminent domain residents.

SUGAR MTN, NC — The Western North Carolina Chapter of the Wild Animal Federation sent a definite message to residents of Chestnut Ridge in Sugar Mountain last night.

The message? GET OUT!

“We were here first,” said chapter spokes-“person” Pogo, an opossum elected by the Wild Animal Federation to represent their complaints.

“These interlopers, not to be confused with cantalopers or antelopers, forced their way onto our reservation without so much as a how-do-you-do. It’s gone on way too long. We’re mad as hell, and we’re not going to put up with it any longer!”

Bud, the bad-ass black bear who is the Enforcer of the group, volunteered to do the deed, which was under the cover of night.

“Sure, come sneaking up in the dark. Pretty cowardly if you ask me,” said one of two year-round residents.

“Fine with me,” said the other year-round resident, who asked to remain anonymous. “I got my 30-ought-6 loaded and at the window if they want to test me!”

“It’s not only the bears,” said the first residents. “Deer, raccoons, squirrels, chipmunks, and crazy-ass Robins have colluded to make this serene and picturesque area a place of potential carnage! What we NEED is a wall to keep these critters OUT!”

Both sides have been reluctant to come to the bargaining table.

“Just look at me!” complained Bud, the alleged perpetrator of last night’s melee. “I’ve put on 183 pounds this month due to all of the sugar and fat these humans have tossed! It’s not only unHEALTHY for ME, it’s a cruel kind of baiting I think has got to stop. Look at all the damn bird feeders, for crissakes! There’s not a wren or a titmouse for miles around able to fend for themself anymore. They’ve all become dependant. It’s like — here’s some free and easy bird seed — come and get it! Then, in the winter, these snowbirds fly south and take their birdfeeders with them! That’s as bad as giving away a free hit of heroine, if you ask me!”

The decades-old battle between squatters (how the animals refer to the humans) and animals is not likely to find resolution any time soon.

“They are just not like us,” murmured Bud under his garbage breath.

“Animals is what they are!” replied one of the year-round residents.

*Mother of all Bears

 

Garbage carnage as a result of MOAB attack during last night’s raid

 

Signs of the Age(s)

25 Feb

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Signs of the Age(s)

By L. Stewart Marsden

 

They’re piling up.

The signs.

And I find myself muttering, “Ya ain’t gettin’ any younger!”

A sciatic nerve that repeats its message I can’t do certain things:

  • like haul all of my groceries stuffed into those plastic bags into my condo in one trip;
  • like sit on the edge of the bed in the morning and bend over to tie my shoes;
  • like go up and down stairways alternating steps (I use my left leg/foot to descend and ascend, rather than going right-left-right-etc);
  • like sweep, vacuum and mop at a furious pace. Or any other strenuous activity that caused me no physical stress when I was younger.

I look in the mirror (as few times as I possibly can) and see “little tiny hairs, growing out my ears*!”

I see moles and warts and looooong antennae-like eyebrow hairs, and wonder what is the etiology for those changes?

I walk into a room purposefully, only to stop in mid-stride to wonder why the hell I walked into the room purposefully.

There are sticky-notes everywhere! I have every GPS location device for wallets, keys, socks, belts, that is possible to buy and utilize.

I and others joke at the age milestones: 30, 40, 50, etc. Some freak out, and scramble to recapture themselves at a much younger age. Miracle hair-growth products. Skin-tightening creams and ointments; and finally, plastic surgery. Botox. Tummy tucks. Diet regimens. Flattering clothing and underclothing that squeezes and redistributes sagging and baggy bulges.

Industries of a myriad of sorts spring up daily, reminding you that, “YOU’RE GETTING OLD!” It’s got to be a Trillion-Dollar industry!

It’s always been the case. What wasn’t always the case was the frenetic energy spent on not getting old. Till us Baby Boomers arrived. Now a whole slug of the population is age-aware, and “Do not go easy into that good night” takes on a totally different meaning.

The tired adage, “Yeah, but it beats the alternative!” said with a shrug of the shoulders and a grin, grows more tiredy and adagey.

I put my underwear on backwards this morning. Didn’t discover the error until Nature called and I panicked in the bathroom, fumbling around and thinking “I know it’s here somewhere!”

I know. That’s what she said.

The thing is I didn’t immediately drop trow and boxers to remedy the situation. In fact, I’m still sitting on my underwear pee-hole as I write! I can hear my kids groaning as they read this. I fully expect one of them to ask me — no — demand that I delete this post.

Yeah, there are definitely some pretty crappy things that come along with getting older. But, all-in-all, the tired adage is still true.

At the same time, there are wonderful liberties afforded me because I’m now visibly old and getting older.

Don’t have to shower as often. Long as I have Johnson & Johnson Baby Powder I can mask the odors that germinate on certain parts of my body.

In public, most (not all) people hold a door for me, or say “You first, I insist!”

I skip over the Facebook posts that ask, “Do you know what this is?” or, “Have you ever used one of these,” and show something I am very familiar with.

I get most of the questions involving the 20th century right when I watch “Jeopardy!

I can wear stripes and plaids at the same time.

I can pretty much say what I think, and most will dismiss it with, “Well, you know … he’s old!”

The list goes on.

I’m not sure how aging is going to fare in the distant future. According to all of the dystopian novels and movies, the old folk simply disappear. That’s either due to euthanasia, or the possibility some anti-aging treatment will be developed.

If so, I think the world’s population will go berserk and pandemonium will ensue, right? Nah. Infant babies will be dispatched instead so that the population at large can continue to remain young without overcrowding. Or, everyone will be sterilized. I mean, ultimate control will remain in the hands of the adults, and the adults will always choose themselves when it comes down to it.

At the moment we’ve not been able to muck with the natural order of things, although God knows we’ve tried. I suppose it’s inevitable. Unless the Apocalypse occurs and Zombies and Preppers rule.

All signs of the Age(s).

 

*Credit must go to him whose name must not be spoken, Bill Cosby.

#NotMySuperBowlChamps

6 Feb

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#NotMySuperBowlChamps

By L. Stewart Marsden

It’s the morning after. I am distraught and incredibly depressed.

Not too terribly long ago Super Bowl Party guests and I were casually watching the Atlanta Falcons dismantle the Evil Empire New England Patriots well into the third quarter of THE GAME. The sound was turned down as we talked about a myriad of subjects not football. It was a done deal. With 6:04 remaining in the third quarter with a 25-point lead, we were all confident that Super Bowl LI was in the bag for the wildly popular Falcons.

Then, all of a sudden, Tom “Voldemort” Brady willed the Patriots through the air and on the ground over and over as the hapless Georgia team stood frozen under his curse.

The inconceivable had happened: a combination of the unexpected plus an archaic NFL rule overruled the desires of NFL fans nationwide to leave all of us shocked and in disbelief.

These rogue Patriots, guilty of conning and deceiving their way to disputed victory after disputed victory had amassed the biggest comeback in Super Bowl history in the first-ever overtime in the championship’s storied history.

Coincidence?

I think not.

Consider the past of these so-called “victors”:

  • These same Patriots, guilty of the infamous “Snow-Plow” victory on December 12, 1982;
  • who benefitted from the infamous “Tuck Rule” that resulted in — guess what?– another controversial victory on January 19, 2002;
  • who disregarded any semblance of fair play on September 9, 2007 in the Spy-Gate incident;
  • who utilized a trick substitution play to upset the Baltimore Ravens on January 10, 2015 on their post-season journey;
  • and, can one EVER forget Deflate-Gate of January 18, 2015?

Can a zebra change its stripes? Can a lion become a vegan? Can an outrageous noncompliant evil outsider win the … well, never mind.

When I was a church-goer, I often heard that Lucifer means “light,” and evil often shrouds its despicable nature — the devil using beauty and alluring words. Voldemort Brady is one such example. Belichick, his master — not so much. But he doesn’t have to be. After all, the puppetmeister pulls his strings behind the set.

Toward the final seconds of the fourth quarter, we all knew “they” would ultimately prevail.

The tie score. Overtime.

Somehow … the overtime coin toss was won by the Evil Empire.

Again, coincidence?

Some foul magic was afoot, methinks. (Ever notice how little the NE Patriots shoot an arm and a finger up at the Big Guy/Gal in the Sky after a big play? So we KNOW that HE/SHE wasn’t rooting for the bad guys).

And, as in the final 10 or so minutes of regular play, The Death Ray was focused on the end zone. Destruction of all that was Holy was imminent. An apocalyptic abyss was unavoidable.

As New England goose-stepped into and through Atlanta territory — not unlike Sherman’s March to the Sea –, one of my guests said,

“Wait! What? If the Nazi team scores, the good guys will get a chance to score also, right?”

WRONG!

The winner of the biggest contest in the NFL season could be determined by oh, such an unfair and archaic rule.

“If the Patriots only score a field goal, yes, then Atlanta has a chance to either score a field goal to tie, or a touchdown to win. BUT, if the slime balls score a touchdown, then it’s over, and they win. No opportunity for the fair-haired sweetums to even the score.”

“BUT, THAT’S NOT FAIR!”

Fair had nothing to do with it. It is in the constitutional laws of the NFL governing overtime play. Apparently the Founding Football Fathers didn’t reckon on such a lousy and unfair rule determining the SBC (Super Bowl Champions).

The wind was literally sucked out of the national football fans’ sails when the Patriots scored on their first drive in overtime.

Boom!

You could see the life drain from the faces of the ESPN color commentators. The silence was deafening. The Bad Guys had come back from a 25-point deficit to win Super Bowl LIe.

No, I meant that. It IS a lie! Like all of the deceit and lies and manipulation this wicked team has wrought during its nefarious lifetime. The “champions” of Super Bowl LI are ONE BIG LIE!

Therefore, I’m starting a movement to petition the NFL in order to have the Patriots stripped of all trophies they have wrongfully accumulated over the decade, as well as rescind the overtime regs. That movement is #NotMySuperBowlChamps. Won’t you join me in this essential effort?

My polls tell me that you agree with me that the overtime rules should be overthrown, and the rightful heirs of the Super Bowl throne — the Atlanta Falcons (and, by the way, the Carolina Panthers for the previous Super Bowl — but that’s another exposé for another day) — be instated as Super Bowl LI Champions!

Oh, and typical of the Patriots, Tom “Voldemort” Brady SAYS someone stole his game jersey.

The truth?

More likely just one more Super Bowl LIe!

GIGO

1 Feb

 

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GIGO

Garbage in, garbage out.

A phrase that seemed to be on many people’s lips a few years back, a nemonic from the high tech industry.

Made sense then, makes sense now.

Perhaps the trick is discerning what constitutes garbage.

After all, one man’s garbage is another’s treasure.

Yard sales, flea markets attest to that.

When I lived in New York City in the 70s I wrote a comedy sketch using that as a central theme.

A man hauled out his bags of garbage for pickup by the city sanitation department.

A rather dapper man who was walking by, stopped, and asked if he could buy the man’s garbage for $50.

The man was no fool, and took the man’s money gladly.
As he climbed the stairs to his building, he turned to see the pristine man rummaging through the bags, oohing and aahing as he did.

“Hey!” Said the one-time garbage owner. “What’re you doing?”

The man replied, “My good fellow, I have learned to recycle things that people throw away. In doing so, I have made my fortune. I shall parlay the fifty dollars I just gave you into $1,000.”

He then pulled items out of the garbage and described their alternative uses, which astounded the dumbfounded man.

“These styrofoam egg cartons? Voila! Bras for Barbie Dolls!” And so forth.

The man suddenly realized he had been had, and came back down the stairs.

“Here’s your fifty dollars back, gimme my garbage!”

“Oh, I AM sorry my friend. All cash transactions are final.”

“Okay,” he said, rifling through his wallet, “here’s another $10.”

“No deal, I’m afraid.”

“$75, then. I’ll give you $75.”

“Once again …”

“OKAY! $100 for my garbage back! That’s my last offer!”

“You strike a hard bargain.” And the gentleman took the $100 and walked away.

Extremely satisfied with himself, the man scooped up his bags of garbage and fairly leaped up the stairs. Opening his front door, he yelled inside,

“Mabel! Look at what I just got for a measly $100 bucks!”

The Lonely King

27 Jan

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In 1685, King Louis XIV of France revoked the Edict of Nantes with the Edict of Fontainebleau. The Edict of Nantes provided certain religious and economic freedoms to the Huguenots, French protestants. With the revocation, Louis came down hard on Huguenots, demanding they recant their religion and convert to Catholicism, or else. The or else included loss of property, imprisonment for males, seclusion in convents for the women, torture and a variety of types of execution, including beheading and burning at the stake.

Numbers are debatable, but between 200,000 and 250,000 Huguenots fled France, many crossing the Atlantic to resettle in America. Charles Towne in now South Carolina was one of those destinations. Those who left represented about one percent of the population of France.

Two similarities strike me from that day and age to the present: the “ramrodding” of power by Louis, and the Huguenot diaspora, which included some of the most intelligent and creative French of the day.

A friend, considering (however seriously) leaving the US for places less antagonistic, got me to thinking. The poem below is the result of that cogitation (I apologize in advance for its poor literary quality):

 

The Lonely King

by Yours Truly

 

There was once a king
Who sat on his throne
Surveying his great and vast kingdom.
From the East to the West
To the ends of the earth
His realm could be equaled by none.

“Jester!” said he
To a motley-dressed clown
“Bring my fiddlers — I’m bored and want sound!”
But the clown,
With a frown, said
“Your fiddlers aren’t here,
Sire, they all have left town
And there’s no more sweet sound
To be found all around.”

“Left town? The lot of them?”

“Yes, Sire. The lot of them, sad to say,
Have amscrayed this place
Which is why there’s no music
To call for, Your Grace.”

“Why would they go and leave me alone?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said the clown to the king on his throne.

“Then bring me my choir, and bid them to sing!”

“Your Worshipful, that, alas, too, is a shame,
For all of your choristers — sopranos to altos,
Tenors to basses —
Have left your vast kingdom for far away places
So remote that some don’t even have names.”

“And my servants and wise men?”

“Please don’t despise them,
But they’ve all left the kingdom as well.”

“But WHY then? Why have they left me here all alone?
To mourn and to moan all alone on my throne?”

“But I am still here!” said the motley-dressed jester,
“And I’ll entertain you so your sadness won’t fester,
And agree with your wisdom and all your decrees
And serve you while groveling down on my knees!
There’s nobody else you need, if you please,
But motley-dressed, dancing clown, silly old me!”

The king sighed a sigh, and nodded,”You’re right.
Those silly old fiddlers, those out-of-tune singers,
Those supposedly-wise wise men,
Those fat, needy people, all stupid and lazy —
Why together they drove this king crazy all day and all night!

“I’m far better off here alone and without them!
Here on my throne with my kingdom about me.

“Who needs all that so-called music? Who needs the riff-raff?
I’m far better off alone on my throne
with my beautiful hand-carved elephant tusk staff
To decree my decrees with a sneer and a laugh.”

To wit, he said, to the clown kneeling there,

“Get me my quill and my parchment post-haste.
I’ve a decree to declare — why there’s no time to waste!”

And he whiled the days on his throne all alone,
(The exception, of course, was his true, loyal clown)
And made his decrees which the clown did declare
To the large empty kingdom, with pomp and with flair.

Disclaimer:
Any similarities between the King and any person living in the District of Columbia on Pennsylvania Avenue are purely, most sincerely, absolutely coincidental. And that’s the purely, most sincerely absolutely alternative Truth!

***

Another entertainer backs out of Trump inaugural events

15 Jan

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Freddy Frog, who had announced he would emcee the entertainment line-up for the Trump Inaugural Ball, has announced that pressure from his fans has forced him out of the frying pan and into the firestorm of anti-Trump sentiment that has seen multiple entertainers re-think participating in the event.

“I was hopping — I mean — hoping that I could bring some kind of healing to the amphibians,” he said. But in light of Trump’s twitters about the species, pressure brought to bear resulted in his backing away from his commitment.

“He’s a lousy chicken,” Trump responded in an angry-orange tweet.

His spokesperson said the President-elect meant to say Freddy Frog “tastes like chicken,” an even more demeaning aspersion.

As he was unaware of the growing political heat of his situation, some projected that Frog’s goose would soon be cooked, which offended the geese, who are in the process of gaggling together to protest in Washington.

“HONK Trump!” Blasted one goose whose gander dander was decidedly up. “He’s the guy who stole the golden eggs, and he has never been brought to justice!”

Frog, whose fame comes despite his inability to perform (that’s what SHE said) once the curtain comes up, wistfully made his return to his luxurious lily pad on the Upper East Side along the East River of NYC.

“It’s sad,” he commented. “But it’s better than having your career croaked by the industry.”

Metaphors and Analogies

28 Oct

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Metaphors and Analogies

By L. Stewart Marsden

 

The air is rife with them.

For us LOTR enthusiasts, who also happen to be third party supporters, I unapologetically offer the following. The music in the background is NOT from the film, but Sting’s I’ll Be Watching You.

Frodo and Sam are Gary and Bill. Frodo is a bit bewildered, but Sam is always his stalwart (the metaphor might break down at this point).

The Eye on the mountain is the political establishment.

Gollum is mainly HRC’s camp at this point. I think the ring might be Trump — who tends to drive people insane, but not sure.

We know despite all odds, Frodo and Sam complete their quest. The jury is fairly unanimous that G&B won’t — and that it’s unlikely they will score high enough with votes to establish a bonafide third party. Especially if Gary keeps smoking maryjane (Lembas — the Waybread), it looks like he won’t reach the summit to toss Donald into the fire of the mountain.

Still, we can hope. We know Gollum will do anything for the ring (here the metaphor switches from being Donald — eeeyeww! — to Hillary becoming POTUS), and she is willing to bite off Gary’s finger, which is the one he uses to tamp his bowl of maryjane — I mean, to hold his Lembas.

In our scenario, it is likely that Frodo and Sam succumb to the mountain fire, not Gollum, who morphs into someone whose name we cannot mention. And then Harry …

But, that’s another story for another time, my children. It is the season of spooks and goblins and things that go bump in the night. I suppose we should expect no less — and certainly no more.

Without a doubt, the scariest story to come down the pike in a long, long time.

The End.

On the Kentucky Derby

2 May

I don’t know if you watched the 141st running of the Kentucky Derby. I did. I mean … the hype! While I watched my writer’s brain kept churning, and I couldn’t help writing the following. In the face of what’s been going on in Baltimore and the rest of the country/world, this side-step into a world totally removed from reality caught my attention. Tell me what you think.

Groups Complain About the 141st Running of the Kentucky Derby:

Strange bedfellows of extreme groups gathered after the 141st running of the Kentucky Derby today to voice complaints regarding the annual event.

1. The Association of Sexual Satisfaction (ASS) complained that compared to the build-up of more than two hours on national television, the actual time of the race was 2:03.02 (two minutes, three point oh two seconds) — which left most viewers unfulfilled and wanting more, only to be exasperated by less-than-satisfying post-race interviews and reruns.

2. The American Tea Party as well as the American Libertarian Party were incensed by the fact that of the 20 jockeys originally scheduled to ride in the event (one was scratched), only two — Gary Stevens (Firing Line) and Mike Smith (Far Right — on whom the Tea party placed a $250,000 bet) — had what the party termed “Amerkin names.” “We would like to see the documentation of all other jockeys to make sure they are in the Nited States under proper papers,” said a spokesman from the group.

3. Westboro Baptist Church, who condemns all who participate in horse racing to hell, further complained about the winning entry’s name. “By God, this is an American institution — and the winner was a goddamn foreigner with a horse named American Pharoah! This country is NOT a dictatorship, but under the rule of GAWD! Pharoah got his ass whipped once, and we cannot condone a horse named Pharoah winning in a Southern American tradition!”

The group called for the immediate dispatching of the horse, jockey and owner.

4. The NAACP complained that the event is “Lily White!” and uses references to slavery in the singing of “My Old Kentucky Home” as well as the tradition of women wearing hats and gowns that reflect an era of black American repression. The Reverend Al Sharpton has called for a march next week of three laps around the Churchill Downs racetrack followed by a fund-raising event with Hollywood notaries that will feature Mint Juleps and shrimp cocktail.

This is satire, of course, and not at all true — at the moment.

Henny Penny and the last corn pone

29 Jul

Henny Penny and the last corn pone

by L. Stewart Marsden

 

So Penny Henny had a hankerin’ for scratch corn pone, and sallied forth into the barnyard.

“Who-all would like some homemade corn pone?”

“Why, I sure would,” said Johnny Jack-ass.

“Wee-wee-wee would,” said the muddy pigs.

The sheep, after asking each other, “Would ewe? Would ewe?” replied “Ya-a-a-a-us!” they bleated.

“Well then, who will help me plow the field?” asked Henny.

“Well, I don’t believe so,” said Johnny Jack-ass. “That’s a bit like work!”

“Wee-wee-wee won’t,” said the muddy pigs.

“Na-a-a-a-a-t us!” the sheep shouted.

“Then I’ll just have to do it myself,” said Henny. And she did.

“Who will help me hoe the rows?” asked Henny sometime later.

“Nope,” said Johnny Jack-ass. “My favorite TV shows are comin’ on!”

“Wee-wee-wee won’t either,” said the muddy pigs.

“Na-a-a-a-a-t us!” the sheep shouted.

“Then I’ll just have to do it myself,” said Henny. And she did.

After a bit, the persistent Henny came back to the barn yard to ask,

“Who will help me plant the seed?”

“Nah. My back pain has flared up again,” said Johnny.

“Wee-wee-we’re too tired from sleeping in the mud,” grunted the pigs.

“Baaaack off, Henny!” said the sheep.

“Then I’ll do it myself,” she said.

And she did.

Well, Henny Penny hoed and weeded and watered the rows of her cornfield, and, over time, cornstalks peeked through the soil and grew in the warm sun over the next weeks. All the while she gave her farm friends the opportunity to help every step of the way. And every step of the way, her farm friends refused to help.

The corn grew and grew and grew, all while Henny Penny tended her crop.

Finally, sprouting golden tassels, the fat ears of corn were ready to pick.

“Who will help me pick the corn?” she asked of the barnyard animals.

“Oh, Henny! I am allergic to cornfields,” said Johnny Jack-ass.

“Wee-wee-we’re too too short to help,” oinked the pigs.

“We can’t be baaaaa-thered,” the sheep said.

“Then I’ll do it myself,” she said, sadly shaking her feathery head.

And she did.

And she dried the corn.

And she shucked the corn.

And she ground the corn.

And she mixed the cornmeal into a fine batter, of which she made the most scrumptious corn pone ever! Ohhh, the wonderful aroma of that corn pone wafted throughout the whole barnyard.

One by one, Johnny Jack-ass, the muddy pigs, and the mewling sheep stepped forward, their noses perked up into the air, sucking in all the wonderful aroma.

“Hello, Johnny Jack-ass. Why are you here?”

“Why, I’m here to help eat the corn pone, of course.”

“And why are you here, pigs?” she asked.

“Wee-wee-we’re hungry and want to help eat the corn pone,” they squeeled.

“And, you ewes? Why are you here?” she asked the sheep.

“To chew-chew-chew the pone,” baaed the ewes.

“Well, guys — surprising as this might be to you all, none of you is going to get a crumb of my delicious homemade corn pone,” said Henny Penny.

“WHAT!!!” the animals screamed in shock.

“You heard me. I plowed the land; I hoed the rows; I planted the seed; I weeded and watered and did everything necessary for the corn to grow nice and high. THEN, I picked and dried the corn, shucked it, and ground it for corn meal. THEN I mixed it with the ingredients and baked the corn pone. YOU . . .. did NOTHING!”

The animals screamed a flurry of things, including UNFAIR! WE’RE DOWNTRODDEN! WE ARE THE 98 PERCENT! WE DEMAND OUR SHARE! DOWN WITH LAND BARONS! SHARE THE WEALTH!

So loud was their verbal displeasure that the ruckus awoke the farmer, who came out of the farmhouse to see what the matter was.

He listened to Henny Penny, and he listened to Johnny Jack-ass, the muddy pigs, and the sheep.

He looked at the cornfield, and the corn meal, and the corn pone — which he sampled.

Then he took his tractor and scooped up nearly 60 percent of all the results of Henny Penny’s efforts, and took that pile of food and distributed it between the jack-ass, the pigs, and the sheep.

“On this farm,” he said, looking at Henny Penny very sternly, “it is one for all, and all for one.”

He then turned and walked with resolution to the farmhouse, slamming the screened door behind him.

Stunned, Henny Penny turned back to what she had left from her efforts.

Time passed.

Winter came and the jack-ass, the pigs and the sheep had eaten all of their shares of the corn pone. Henny, who had carefully parceled out her food, had enough to last her until spring.

When spring came, Henny stayed in the chicken coop.

When summer came, Henny stayed in the chicken coop.

“Hey, Penny!” called Johnny Jack-ass into the chicken coop. “Aren’t you going to plant corn this year?”

“Yeah!” grunted the pigs.

“Yeah!” said the sheep.

“No.”

“Why not?” they asked.

“I’m going to be satisfied with the chicken feed the farmer hands out,” she said.

“Makes sense,” said Johnny.

“Yup,” said the pigs.

“I agree,” said the sheep.

And there was no corn pone to be had on the farm from that time forward.