Broke-Ass and the Red Hook Chicken Guy: Heaven Help Our Happy Home

So, guess what? Big Daddy finally launched his chicken coop business: Red Hook Chicken Guy. And quicker than you could say, “Chicken shit is kick-ass fertilizer,” the phone was ringing off the goddamn charger, simultaneously vexing Broke-Ass with its never-changed-the-default-settings ringtone that sounds like the ambient muzak on Virgin America–and filling her with great hopes for the future.

As you lovelies know all too well, the Rancho is home to some six chickens, two dogs (though Broke-Ass had an involuntary stress-puke while picking up the new puppy, Gracie, from the North Shore Animal League, all is well now), a parrot, three adorable schmushkies, and two technical adults. The chickens are, sans doubte, the stars of the show. Not only are they the only reliably productive earners around here, but everybody likes them because they’re cool and they lay delicious eggs. Any time people come over, or hear that the Rancho is egg-laying terroire, that’s all they want to talk about. And Big Daddy is all too happy to talk about chickens.

Big Daddy loves chickens. No matter where his kooky old life has taken him–Los Angeles, Paris, Brooklyn–Big Daddy has always raised chickens. In more than 20 years of urban chicken-raising, he has expanded his encyclopedic knowledge of care, maintenance, and coop design, and he has winnowed down his Phasianidasic philosophy. But being the rawther obsessive personage that he resolutely is, Big Daddy is constantly engaged in a continuing chicken education course of his own construction, involving a daily intake of chicken breeders’ websites and chicken meet-up postings and free associative musings on what diet produces the highest levels of Omega 3s in eggs. The schmushkies play with the chickens. For her part, Broke-Ass coos gently to them and tosses all the leftover parts of vegetables and herbal tea into their coops. These combined efforts seem to generate a highly nutritious yield. Proof = pudding. Egg pudding, that is. Red Hook gold.

Anywho, the feeling about entrenched hobbies ’round the Rancho is: Can we make a business out of this? As aging members of Generation X, we are artesenal about freaking everything (favorite band: The Silver Jews), self-reliant (we were latchkey kids in elementary school), and if we’ve done nothing else as a generation, it’s been to popularize the micro business (though we also have rap and hardcore punk to our credit–and our generation’s Bob Dylan, Eminem). So therewith, the birth of Red Hook Chicken Guy: a full-service coop-building, hen-providing, feed-purveying micro business, manned by Big Daddy and backed by the whole squad.

Again, as you lovelies know all too well, Broke-Ass can and will grouse about anything. Chicken-raising, however, rocks. It’s eggs, it’s cool for the kids, it’s cheap. And evidently, the chicken-raising zeitgeist is at critical mass. We put up the site yesterday, and the calls and emails have been pouring in. It’s crazy. It’s awesome. Anyway, that’s enough plugging. Now, I have to go feed Two Lumps of Sugar his lunch of scrambled eggs, with nettle pesto. Laissez les bontemps rouler.


About brokeassgrouch

I'm goddamned broke and grouchy. I live in the middle of the damned ghetto and raise chickens for eggs; grow all my own vegetables and fruit; bake the bread and make the cleaning products. Why? Because I fucking have to, that's why! That's what you do when you're fucking poor! You have to make the shit yourself, dumb-ass! Broke-Ass Grouch is sick of all you Bennington and RISD trustafarians yapping about your "urban farming co-ops" and your "carbon conscious lifestyle" and your "green choices" in the Times Styles section and every alternapress periodical that you can pick up for free in every eye-wateringly expensive, edgy bakery or green-market. Maybe when you have a trust fund, you can make "choices" or have a "lifestyle" or "decide" how to "spend" your "money." Excuse me, but Mama is just trying to feed her kids over here, you little shits. And stop spraying your art-school graffiti on the fence of the vacant lot across the street from my house. I know who you are, and I'm telling my friend Keith (who lives in the projects) that it was you who painted that cartoon of the African mask. So what can I tell you? I don't fucking know. I know a lot about being broke, sure as Bob's your fucking uncle. I know about how useless an Ivy League degree is when you're flat-ass broke. I know how to unclog a drain with baking soda and vinegar, and I know how to make my own CHEESE, for fuck's sake. You tell me.
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4 Responses to Broke-Ass and the Red Hook Chicken Guy: Heaven Help Our Happy Home

  1. Barbara Spencer says:


  2. Susu says:

    Dear Broke, Please email. I looked at your site for two seconds and it seems hilarious, but my husband is fucking pissed right now that he’s bathing the kids and not me. So I gotta go. Susu

  3. joanna says:

    how fabuloso.
    when i can i come visit with my very own shmuskies?

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