THAT WAS SO UNCALLED FOR

Once upon a crack of dawn, in a little village perched between the henhouses and the city’s cobblestone streets, there lived a rooster named Cluckston. 🐓 Cluckston wasn’t just any rooster; oh no, he was the cock of the walk. His feathers shimmered in the sun like freshly polished eggshells, and his strut was so smooth it could butter a biscuit. ✨🍞 He was a devoted father, a loving husband, and a bird whose crow could wake up the laziest hens in the coop. But Cluckston had one fatal flaw—he couldn’t resist attention, especially when it came from queens. 👑 One fateful afternoon, as Cluckston clucked his way through the city square, he caught the eye of Madame Poulette, the sexiest queen this side of the rooster coop. 😏🐔 Madame Poulette was known for her sharp beak and even sharper wit. When she saw the way Cluckston's tail feathers swayed, she was plucked—hook, line, and beak. 🎣 “Well, well, if it isn’t the cock of my dreams,” she purred. Cluckston puffed out his chest, practically crowing with pride. 🏋️‍♂️ “Why, Madame, I’m not just a cock of dreams—I’m a cocktail of charm and elegance.” 🍹✨ Madame Poulette’s eyes sparkled like dew on a freshly laid egg. 💎🥚 “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? I promise you’ll have a meal to crow about.” 🍷🍗 Now, Cluckston knew better. He was a married rooster, after all, with a clutch of chicks depending on him. 🐥❤️ But he was also a sucker for compliments and couldn’t resist the chance to bask in the glow of a queen. 👑 “Hen-ever you call, I’ll come running,” he replied, slyly tucking his wedding band deeper into his plumage. 💍🪶 That evening, Cluckston arrived at Madame Poulette’s home, his feathers fluffed and his wattles polished to a gleam. 💅✨ The smell of wine and herbs wafted through the air, making his beak water. 🍷🌿 “I must say, Madame, this aroma is un-coq-parable!” he quipped. 😏 “Oh, darling, you haven’t even tasted it yet,” she clucked with a sly smile, guiding him to a candlelit table. 🕯️🍽️ As Cluckston sat down, he noticed the centerpiece: a plump chicken roasting in a wine bath. 😳🍗 “I see you’ve got a real cluck-to-the-past aesthetic here,” he joked nervously. 🕰️ Madame Poulette leaned in, her beak nearly brushing his. “Oh, Cluckston, the night is young, and the wine is... full-bodied.” 🍷✨ It was at that moment that Cluckston realized he might be in deep fryer trouble. 🍳 Before he could make his escape, Madame Poulette revealed the main course wasn’t just any Coq au Vin—it was him. 🐔🔪 “Dinner is served,” she cackled, donning an apron that read Chef de Poule. 🧑‍🍳🍽️ Cluckston’s squawks echoed through the night as he met his fate. 🐓💀 It wasn’t his finest hour, but it was certainly his last. The next morning, the village was eerily silent. Without Cluckston, there was no one to crow at the crack of dawn, no wake-up call to rouse the hens or queens. 🌅😴 And so, in a high-rise glass tower overlooking the city, two drag queens named Miss October and Banana Delvey rolled over in bed, groaning at the time. 😵‍💫🛌 “Why are we so late for brunch?!” Miss October wailed, reaching for her rhinestoned clock. ⏰💎 “I heard the rooster crossed the wrong road last night,” Banana Delvey quipped, stifling a yawn. 😏🚧 “Well, I guess that’s one way to fry a chicken,” Miss October muttered, slipping on her heels. 🐓🔥👠 And that, podlings, is how one disloyal rooster left the queens sleeping in—and proved once and for all that brunch waits for no bird. 🍳🥂🐔