(This story is 100% true - except for any bits I make up.)
I was a youngling once and lived on a farm in Massachusetts. One of my jobs was to feed the chickens. It wasn't particularly onerous, usually.
Then one day my brother's best friend had n Aunt who got a little too old to handle the animals she was taking care of. She had lots of cute ducks, some loud geese and a rather pretty rooster. We had a farm and were quite able to take care of the tasty, umm, I mean homeless, critters.
So we set up home for the ducks in the pond about a half mile into the woods. The geese were set up much closer with a bathing pool and a feeding station back by the bullpen (not a place where we kept staff-writers of the local newspaper, an actual male bovine.)
What to do with the rooster. He went into the hen-house. After all, he was a chicken.
That rooster was a piece of work. A real mean, foul-tempered prick. One might even call him a cock.
You see, he was a fighting bird from South America. Very colorful though! Very pretty! Very nasty!
And I, in my youth, was set out to feed him. I was terrified of him. I couldn't collect the eggs, I couldn't give the birds water, I couldn't even walk near the hen-house without that bird making my life miserable.
So one day I come home from school and go to feed the chickens. No rooster. I walked around the hen-house - no rooster. I walked around again. ROOSTER!
The bastard came around the corner and attacked me with his spurs. They were about 1.5 inches long (call it 4 CM four you metric types) and they were aimed at me!
Outnumbered, one to one, I fell back. I retreated and tripped over the cover of the old well underneath the windmill that covered a 17th century well. This is not an optimal situation.
Now I was being attacked by a vicious South American fighting cock while laying on my back with my legs spread apart! I'll give you one guess where that DEMON BIRD FROM HELL was headed with his head full of evil and his spurs of doom.
Well, let me put it this way: if he'd have won that day I would not have any interest in pretty girls.
To recap the scene: I am laying on my back, on a rickety well covering, underneath a windmill, with a vicious attack bird going after my private parts. Lest anyone be laughing at this point I would like to point out that fighting cocks are not to be trifled with.
Where was I? Oh yes. Lying on my back with HELL'S OWN CHICKEN trying to emasculate me. My left hand found a bit of 2X4 scrap that had been carelessly left lying around and I instinctively grabbed hold of it.
WHACK! WHAM! POW!
I cold-cocked the, umm, cock and prevented him from attacking my, umm, cock.
Then I said, "Screw it. I'm done getting eggs today."
My father told me he was upset about me killing his prize rooster but years later he told me he was proud of me for doing that. He had actually skinned the bird to use it's feathers for tying flies.
Anyhow, that's my cock story.
At the beginning I said it was true except for the bits I made up. I only made up two parts:
1) I'm not sure about the relationship that had us ending up with the DEMON ROOSTER FROM HELL.
2) I'm pretty sure it was more than three whacks I gave that thing. As anyone who has beaten his cock can tell you, it usually takes more than three - I wasn't stopping until I was certain that that thing was limp.