True Story©... My Emotional Support Rooster™

     You’ve seen them in the news and on the internets.  People showing up to the airport with the damndest of animals; squirrels, peacocks, sugar gliders, children, hamsters/gerbils, untrained dogs and basically any other animal they probably shouldn’t be trying to bring into the passenger compartment in an airplane.  Laws are catching up with these silly-ass attempts at shirking an otherwise ill-defined system and I guess it is all for the better.

     But did I tell y’all about my emotional support rooster?
Stop laughing, it was a real thing.  I didn’t even bother giving him a name.
As the great both of you may be aware, I LIVE for a good inappropriate double entendre, and there is no doubler of the doubles of being able to talk about my cock and not having it exist as a reference to my winky.  One could go as far as to say that my gymnastics with the English language is important to normal existence for me, so the existence of my pet rooster was an exercise in emotional support, hence making him – by definition – an Emotional Support Rooster.
No, seriously, stop fucking laughing!

     I took him with me whenever I had somewhere to go.  I would bring him to the airport terminal, the rental car terminals and various hotels/townhouses we would rent and the conversation would almost always go the same way.  I could have written a script for them to quickly extract myself from them.

Me: “Checking in for last name [redacted]”
Clerk: “Okay, just a moment Mr--…  Um, is that a chicken?”
Me: “It’s a rooster.  Most of the time when you refer to a ‘chicken’ you mean a hen.  Really, it’s just semantics, but this guy here is my--…”
Clerk: “Sir, you’re going to have to pay a pet fee if you’re bringing him into the property with you.”
Me: “Oh, he’s not a ‘pet,’ per se…  He is more of--…”
Clerk: “Whoa…  Are you to cook him?”
Me: “EASY!!!  My buddy here is sensitive.  Besides, no one eats the rooster.  The meat is muscular and tough.  Hens are for eating.”
Clerk: “But sir, back to my original point here.  A pet fee will be necessary for him to stay with you here.”
Me: “He. Is. Not. A. Pet.”
Clerk: “And you’re not planning to cook and eat him.  So what, pray tell, is he?”
Me: “An Emotional Support Rooster™”
Clerk: “A what?”
Me: “Are you daft?  I said a fucking Emotional Support Rooster™.  Sorry for my language, I am passionate about my cock.”
Clerk: “Y-your what?”
Me: “My cock!  I like to travel with my cock and show him off to people.  He keeps me normal!”
Clerk (stifling frustrated laughter): “I am still unsure that we allow barnyard animals in our condos though.”
Me: “Never been on a barnyard.  He is a house cock.”
Clerk: “I-I’m still not su--…”
Me: “Then you will get me a manager.”
Clerk: “But”
Me: “Manager please”
Clerk: “How can you justify this?”
Me: “That sign over there says service animals are welcome, no?”
Clerk: “Yes, but--…”
Me: “Now, the vagueness of the word ‘animal’ leaves it subject to interpretation, no?”
Clerk: “But sir…  You have to know as well as I do that that rule is for people who need like a seeing eye dog, or a seizure support dog or something like th--…”
Me: “I am not blind or epileptic.  My need for emotional support cannot be satisfied by a dog.  Besides, a dog might eat my cock.”
Clerk: “…”
Me: “And not in a way that I might like, either.”
Clerk: “Sorry?”
Me: “Nevermind, anyway, that manager thing?”
Clerk: “Just a moment, sir.”

She goes into the office.  A minute passes…  Three minutes…  Minute five was marked with UPROARIOUS laughter from who I assume was the manager I was hoping to toss a few more “cock” comments at.  Unfortunately, it was not to be.  At about seven minutes, I was fighting the urge to ring the bell so as to not upset my cock, the door to the office opened…

Me: “You’re alone.”
Clerk: “Sir, you’re in cabin 207C.  My manager says breakfast is on us for the whole of your stay.”
Me: “Thank you.”

Now THAT is customer dammit service.  I never did get a chance to give the manager a chance to see my cock, but I went on with my afternoon thinking maybe he would get a chance to see it later on in the weekend.

     I swear to you, EVERYWHERE I took that rooster, the scene played out basically JUST like that.  I would basically jab them with thinly-veiled-but-plausibly-deniable dick jokes until they laughed and gave me what I wanted or until they basically just bent to my whims.  It wasn’t even like I had to try very hard either.
Eventually, though, people started bringing all kinds of animals on the planes and one lady had to choose between watching in horror as her hamster gets flushed down a pooper (and not in that Richard Gere way) and not being able to board her flight.  Needless to say, my hustle was over.  No longer could I download a form on a questionable website and then dick joke my way through life.  With that said, I had to unfortunately sell my cock to a farm, on which he would get to do real rooster shit, like fertilizing hens and eventually getting eaten by a wild fox.
Or whatever it is that roosters actually DO on farms, of course.


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