Is this the rooster that laid my egg?


THE above heading comes from my five-year old bubu who remains nameless to prevent embarrassment.
Have you ever heard of the 1950s classic joke introduced to Kwato Mission by my late cousin Hetei Dickson from Ipswich Grammar School in Brisbane?
No? Sorry you missed the boat to the best funny haha and funny peculiar jokes of that era.
Come on I’m carbon-dated.
At my not-so tender age of 75-plus and on board the visiting YWAM floating haus sik I thanked my pretty tour guides Aussie Anna and American Melissa for the “magical mystery tour that is coming to…” in reference to the Beatles.
There was a moment of silence as we negotiated our way down from top deck to exit on deck one.
Anna: “I’m not from that…”
Biga: “Oh, you weren’t even conceived yet?”
Ha ha ha. Funny, ha ha ha. Biga’s a fossil. Soon some silly WHYWORM scientific floating flotsam volunteer will dig his DNA out for posterity.
Oh I detoured a bit. Back on shore on Sunday night, Alotau Waterfront Lodge CEOs Ringi and Robert Igara, complete with a wog complaint, drove me home to Wags, Pauline F my aging niece christened North Wagawaga without my consent.
I thanked them in my best Fijian. They reversed right under my almost spreading breadfruit diwai which is where chickens roost for the night.
And I went Oh No, realising that their state of the art aircon bus could receive unchecked, for security and health reasons – messages sent from the branches above.
I always take a wide berth and thus avoiding direct hits whenever I walk under the tree because kakaruks …aka kamkams or chickens and flying foxes and rats roost there.
It took a while to find my illusive key in my second hand bag littered with whatever oldies keep in such containers.
I opened my door after having twisted the key around the wrong way.
The stench hit my aging smellbuds.
Evidence 1: chook turd (its more ethical than “sh…t”! ) just at the threshold of me smelly door.
The smell’s everywhere. Slowly I smelled my way around my house.
Evidence 2: Another pile as big as a stunted piece of Columbines toffee of my early virgin days shoplifting and window shopping on Samarai.
A tiny feather. Click went my camera. Click it went again after discovering a very lonely and isolated pee. Or was it wee?
The water plastic bottle lying on its side. Not my doing. The side of my kilekile (mat) was nicely scratched. My tooth brush?
The intruders had broken and entered through a window I had left accidentally ajar.
What comes before?  The chicken or the egg?
Early this morning we photographed four piles of chook poo and the breaking and entering suspects.
As soon as the hens took off and landed after a lot of shrieking and squawking by the randy roosters the race was on.
My ever-ready camera at ready for the action full speed ahead.
Another flight to earth.  Click. Missed. Sh..t!
And so at last we photographed the feathery sh..t shooters from up above the tree so high.
Light, camera, action! The chicken porn stars were canned exclusive for The National.
The feathery couple put Adam and Eve and Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton to shame fornicating in my imagined Garden of Eden stripping off their feathers any which way. Ayo!
And the base of the breadfruit coop is forever painted with poo. The temperature rises and the stink increases. When it drizzles the smell reaches the highest level in stinkacology.
I have a mobile electric fan. Am I pleased the birds who entered my premises illegally did not pee or wee or both near the fan for certainly you know what happens when poo hits a fan.
“A little bird was flying high
It brought a message from the sky
So when the Queensland farmer wiped his eye
He yelled: “Thank God cows can’t fly”!
Hetei Dickson did not write it!

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