You gotta be on your guard at all times, man. You never know when the next guy with a bright red comb’s gonna show up thinkin’ he’s all cock-of-the-walk trying to mack your hens.

I got these chickens runnin’ round gettin’ that seed, you feel me? And here I sit. On MY perch. Four, maybe five feet up in the air. And sometimes I feel like crowin’. And when I crow, I let ALL the roosters know this is MY farm. Ain’t no one tryin’ to run game on MY farm but me. That’s just how it’s gonna be.

Ol’ lady farmer? Nah, we cool. We got this arrangement, see. She let me do my thing ‘round this yard and she take a few eggs here and there. Not like I need any of those chicks growin’ up to become the competition, you know? And shoot, one time I even pecked that ol’ cat of hers right on his ugly face. She didn’t do a DAMN thing. ‘Cause she knows, boy. She knows.

Roosterin’ ain’t easy, but it sure is fun, you know what I’m sayin’?

Wear this shirt: To that Celtic art festival. Roosters are like the Grim Reaper or something to those guys.

Don’t wear this shirt: To a Chinese restaurant with their zodiac printed on the menu. They don’t call ‘em roosters.

This shirt tells the world: “Yeah, once castrated their tales grow really really long. I don’t know, man, I’m just really into castrated roosters. I don’t give you a hard time about liking football.”

We call this color: Baby Doodle Blue

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