the hen with the golden eggs

@hexxvx asked for a post on Italian idioms, and this is it. Now, we have A LOT of them (as many languages do), and I really didn’t know which ones to select, so I just went with some pertaining to three major groups (those who mention animals, body parts [I mostly left out the vulgar ones here, but I could make a post on those too if you’d like me to] and food) and a couple of bonus ones. The Food and Miscellanea categories are under the cut because this is already long enough as it is, hahaha.
Enjoy and please ask if you have any questions!

ANIMALS

In bocca al lupo/in culo alla balena – Good luck/Break a leg (lit. “in the mouth of the wolf/in the ass of the whale”)

Honestly, I tend to use the first one more ‘cause the other is a bit gross, haha. I someone wishes you “in bocca al lupo”, you should answer “crepi [il lupo]” (“may [the wolf] die”) or also, if you are a loser like I am, “viva il lupo” (“may the wolf live”), while if someone says “in culo alla balena” the correct reply is “speriamo che non caghi” (“let’s hope it doesn’t shit”).

Il bue che dice cornuto all'asino – The pot calling the kettle black (lit. “the ox calling the donkey horned”)

When somebody accuses someone else of a fault which they themselves share. We’ll get to other meanings of “cornuto” later (spoiler: it’s cuckold) which give this idiom subtler nuances.

Una gallina dalle uova d'oro – A golden goose (lit. “hen with the golden eggs”)

Coming from Aesop’s fables, this idiom refers to something that generates great profit.

Una gatta da pelare – A tough nut to crack (lit. “a cat to skin”)

“Avere una [bella] gatta da pelare” basically means being faced with a difficult task, and I guess because poor cats rightfully won’t let you skin them so easily.

Menare il can per l'aia – To beat around the bush (lit. “to lead the dog around the yard”)

Don’t be fooled by the meaning that the verb “menare” has acquired nowadays (at least in central Italy): the poor dog is not being beaten, but rather led around in circles without a real purpose. This is an old idiom, also featured in Goldoni’s plays, dating back to the 18th century!

Prendere due piccioni con una fava – To kill two birds with one stone (lit. “to catch two pigeons with one fava bean”)

The meaning is essentially the same, though our version is less cruel and more precise (I honestly don’t know why one would want to catch pigeons in particular, though).

Un freddo cane – Damn cold (lit. “dog cold”)

When someone says that “fa un freddo cane”, they mean that the day is the coldest they’ve seen in quite a long time. The addition of “cane” is, basically, a way to insult the cold itself, and can actually be applied to other expressions as well: if a broken limb “fa un male cane”, for example, it means that it hurts real bad.

Sputare il rospo – To spit it out (lit. “to spit the toad out”)

You’ve been guarding a secret that weighs upon your chest, and a friend of yours is trying to get it out of you. After a couple of useless tries, they might lose their temper and burst into an exasperated: “Sputa il rospo!” (“spit it out!”) in order to persuade you to confess.

BODY PARTS

Avere le braccine corte – To be tightfisted (lit. “to have tiny, short arms”)

It’s not a particularly nice thing to say, but this idiom applies to those who just won’t spend their money, ever. If one is a bit stingy, we say he or she has short arms, so short that they can’t reach in their pockets!

Avere la coda di paglia – To have a guilty conscience (lit. “to have a tail made of straw”)

The expression probably dates back to the Middle Ages, when those who had been defeated or condemned were made to walk around wearing a straw-tail, that could easily get burned to add to their humiliation. Someone who has a tail made of straw worries about seemingly minor details, and acts defensively out of fear of being exposed.

Braccia rubate all'agricoltura – Someone who isn’t very bright doing a job they’re not fit for (lit. “arms stolen from farming”)

A funny one, albeit undoubtedly snobbish. It can be said of someone who’d be better off cultivating the land rather than exerting themselves in intellectual purposes.

Essere di bocca buona – To eat anything (lit. “to have a kind mouth”)

A person who is “di bocca buona” will not request an elaborated (and probably expensive) dish, and will rather be satisfied with whathever they’ll find on their plate.

Fare le corna a qualcuno – To cheat on somebody (lit. “to put horns on somebody”)

Some argue that the origin of the idiom is to be sought in the Greek myth of the Minotaur, born of the adulterous relationship between Pasiphaë, queen of Crete, and a bull. Generally speaking, “fare le corna” is a propitiatory gesture thought to keep bad luck away.

Fare orecchie da mercante – To turn a deaf ear (lit. “to do a merchant’s ears”)

Its presence in written Italian has been attested since the 14th century, and in a comedy written by Anton Francesco Grazzini in the following century, the author himself explains it thus: “[Merchants] only hear what pleases them”.

Non avere peli sulla lingua – To not sugar-coat things (lit. “to not have hair on one’s tongue”)

This expression is fit for someone who always says things the way they are, if a little harshly, without worrying too much about the way others could react.

Togliersi un peso dallo stomaco – To take something off one’s chest (lit. “to take a weight off one’s stomach”)

Basically the same as in English.

Keep reading

Weirdly specific headcanon

So of the six Sisters Thronum(those who went before the Golden Throne) Arabella the Liberator was by far the most butch, but she’s also seen as the Saint most likely to encourage trans women to come out of the closet, with many transgender sisters mentioning divine revelations in her voice.
Because of that and the use of the word “egg” to describe trans women who aren’t out, Arabella is sometimes jokingly referred to as “Mother Hen” among many other informal titles(another tradition among the Sororitas, though one only expressed in private)

“Here next is the talisman and its ring. They have the property of destroying everything, of commanding the elements, of calling down the thunder, hail, the stars, earthquakes, hurricanes, water spouts on land and sea, and of preserving our friends from all accidents. Here are the words which one must pronounce (the numbers indicate each thing which you wish to operate): first, you pronounce: Ditau, Hurandos; second, Ridas Talimol; third, Atrosis, Narpida; fourth, Uusar, Itar; fifth, Hispen, Tromador; sixth, Parenthes, Histanos.”

       ~La Poule Noire

New Books: The Black Pullet & The Magus

My mom sent me an Amazon gift card for Christmas and this is what I spent it on :D

[The Black Pullet: Science of Magical Talisman]

First surfacing in France in the 18th century, The Black Pullet is a guide to the construction and use of magical talismanic rings. With the use of these rings, people attained extraordinary powers. Perhaps the most wonderful secret revealed is the power to produce the Black Pullet, otherwise known as the “Hen with the Golden Eggs.” Unlimited wealth was granted to the person who achieved the creation of this incredible Hen.

[The Magus: A Complete System of Occult Philosophy]

The Magus, or Celestial Intelligencer; being a Complete System of Occult Philosophy is a handbook of the occult and ceremonial magic compiled by Francis Barrett and published in 1801. This book facilitated the modern revival of magic by making information from otherwise rare books readily available. It may have influenced novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton and occultist Eliphas Levi. More controversially, it has been identified as an influence on Joseph Smith, Jr., founder of the Latter Day Saint movement, in Reed C. Durham, Jr.’s speech “Is There No Help for the Widow’s Son? ” Reproduction of 1801 Edition.

I really wanted this copy of The Magus. All the copies I’ve found online are fine, where the actual text is concerned, but the plates of the talismans and other drawings are always pretty subpar (at least, for me). This copy of The Magus really was worth the price for me - the plates are reproduced very, very cleanly. I’m extremely happy with it.

Likewise, this copy of The Black Pullet has very nicely reproduced illustrations. They’re not as clear as the illustrations in The Magus, but they are definitely clearer than the online versions of The Black Pullet I’ve managed to find.

2

i’ve been playing monster hunter 4 ultimate and it made me really want to design jack and hen to be mh monsters! i wrote up some quick descriptions too:

jack is a flying wyvern that prefers living in caves or dense forests. it can cling to walls and ceilings to attack enemies from above using soundwaves and acidic saliva.
hen is a bird wyvern that lives in the tundra, it’s very protective over it’s nest and attacks anything that goes near it. it attacks using it’s sharp beak, claws, and by slamming it’s tail. their golden eggs are extremely valuable.

I know it sounds silly but I HATE white store eggs

Store bought white chickens eggs just look ill to me. The brown ones aren’t quite as bad, but they always look too clean, too perfect, and when you crack them open they’re pale yellow inside.

I grew up with the warm brown eggs of our golden comets. They came in various shades, some with speckles, some big and some small. Our eggs were a rich orange, now I don’t like eating eggs period but they were far better than store bought ones.

We always knew which hen laid what egg. Nora always laid the best eggs, she was our astrolorpe, and her daughter Otter laid the worse ones! We think that Otter actually came from Lily’s egg because of her colors, but Nora was a good momma and would sit on any egg we put under her. Applebutter, my baby, would lay the most beautiful dark brown eggs you’ve ever seen, they were also pretty big too! She was a big hen herself, and probably the sweetest, while Sienna was the lead hen with Flo being her second in command, Apple was the one whom everyone respected but she never fought, and no one ever challenged her. She was always the first to make friends with the young hens.

We didn’t get hens who laid white or green eggs until later in my life, but they still always looked better than store bought eggs, more of a pearl like color instead, and still that healthy looking yolk.

I assume it’s mostly diet, why store eggs aren’t as nice, but it’s also probably care. All of ours had names that they responded to, they were all loved and treated with respect. They got to explore the world and eat all sorts of bugs, hang with their favorite hen cliques, sun bathe, dust bathe, they got yummy leftovers and private care when they weren’t feeling well. I wish all chickens were treated like that.

A Master List of Things Ruled by the Planets, the Signs, and the Fixed Stars

This will be the ninth post in our series on astrological magic. Now I’m going to expand on the planets, signs, and fixed stars, and give you some information about the particular perfumes, plants, and materials which are influenced by specific celestial bodies. This will be a fairly extensive post, detailing many things which are under the influence of the various celestial powers, or which otherwise correspond to them. I will start with the planets, going in Chaldean order, which means I’ll be starting with Saturn. This post intends to be very useful, but in order to successfully draw power from the heavenly bodies and have their energy directed effectively to carry out your will, you should not use this post as the only reference for your methods. Be safe, and feel free to ask us if you have any questions.

Keep reading

Another lost one.

Stan leant against the register, looking at the shack with a fond, yet sad eye. Thirty years of work laid before him and memories jumped freely from his mind, replaying themselves right before his eyes.

Soos following a thirty year old Stan near the case filled with random rocks, his eyes wide and curious. The boy had been drowned in his uniform at the time, tucking it in his shorts and rolling the sleeves up to make it fit. A small screwdriver was clutched in his hand.
(Near the knick knacks was Wendy, who had nervously came in for an application. She fiddled with one of his bobble heads, flicking the head and grinning as it nodded back at her.

Dipper and Mabel looked around for their free gifts, looking at him from time to time in curiosity. Dipper grabbed a hat, putting it on his head with a smile and examining himself in the mirror, pleased with what he saw. And Mabel, the pumpkin, dug through the box of random items Stan had threw in a box years ago, pulling out a grappling hook of all things.
Tourists wandered in and out of the shack, and Stan could hear the chipper laughs of women and children or the bored groans of teens. He saw himself at the vending machine, pushing in the code and disappearing to the basement. Or there, giving tours and acting as mysterious as possible. Or over there, flirting with an older lady and conning her into buying as much as he could sell her.

It was all so real for a second and Stan could feel the life that had once inhabited the place. Then reality kicked in and he was once again in an empty room, staring at the junk that had once been his life. Sighing, he stood, grumbling as something in his back protested at the movement.

Yeesh, he was getting old, he thought to himself while rubbing his back. Shaking his head with a small chuckle, he made his way from the business part of the shack to the living part, going up the stairs and into his room. He’d cleaned recently and it looked exactly like it had before he claimed it as his own. Stan like to think that Ford would like it.

Ford. Just thinking about Ford put a funny taste in his mouth. They’d gotten closer since everything… had happened over the summer, although it still made Stan wary. Yeah, they were getting along, but Stan couldn’t help but feel unwanted. His mind drifted to his brother’s request (read order) and let out a shaky sigh, scrubbing his eyes with an angry growl. He wouldn’t cry, not here. Stanford was just across the hall, getting the much needed rest he’d been skipping out on, choosing to work on the portal for the last few days. Stanford was already too close, in Stan’s opinion.

Walking over to his bed, Stan picked up the suitcase he had stuffed under it and blew over the top, cursing as dust flew in his face. Setting it down, he opened it and sighed. Time to get to work. Walking over to the closet, he opened it carefully and looked inside.

Stan didn’t have many clothes, he had nothing if he really thought about it. Plucking a couple of Hawaiian shirts from the rack, he threw them over his shoulder and onto the bed. Then he grabbed his pajamas, which just happened to be his old, well loved wife beater and a pair of ragged striped boxers. They got the same treatment, flying over his head and onto the bed. Moving on, Stan bit back a chuckle.

A red sweater stared back at him, small yellow fish sprinkling the top of it in three little rows. The small fish lined the bottom and sleeves of the garment also and Stan idly picked one up, feeling warm fleece under his fingers. It was perfect, he thought with a small, bittersweet smile. Imagine his surprise when Mabel had ran up to him, a beaming smile on her little face and a large sweater sitting in her arms. She had made the old man pinky swear to wear it the next time she saw him and Stan didn’t have the heart or the stomach to deny her, hooking his large pinky around her small one and sealing the deal. Then with one final kiss to the head, he’d sent her off to her bus, waving with one hand while the other clutched the gift to his chest.

Working his way out of his suit jacket, tie, and button up, he slipped the sweater over his head and down his front.
‘It’s like a hug you can wear all day long Grunkle Stan!’ Mabel’s voice rang through his ear, still as chipper and excited as the day she left.

Shaking his head free from the memory, Stan absently pulled more clothing from the rack and walked over to the bed, setting them in a pile next to him. He quickly folded the items and organized them in the suitcase, humming quietly under his breath as he did so. Then when that was done, he stood again and looked around for anything he’d missed.

A stack of photos was spotted from the corner of his eye and he grabbed them, flicking through each one. The first was a picture of Soos when he was about thirteen, back when he’d actually liked his birthday and Stan was more of an inconsiderate ass. The boy was clutching a snow globe in his hands, looking to all the world like he’d been given the key to the universe. It was a shitty gift, he knows, but he didn’t have a lot of time to prepare. Wide, gleeful eyes stared up at him and a beaming smile graced the boys face, making Stan smile.
Next came a picture of the Corduroy family, one that had been given to him by Manly Dan himself.

‘Good with the kids, they like you.’ He’d said, well more like roared, but it was the same thing with Manly Dan.

And Stan couldn’t deny it, he adored those kids. It still made him a little sad that they’d moved on from him, all but Wendy of course, but he understood. Boys will be boys.
The picture happened to be from Halloween and the children were dressed up in the cutest costumes. Wendy stood out from the others, her little face unhappily staring back at him and making Stan hold back a laugh. He remembered that Halloween. The kids had dressed up like Jack and the Beanstalk. Little Brick, the oldest of the Corduroy children, had dressed up as Jack while Wendy was the beanstalk. Next came Danny, who had dressed as the Hen, two small golden eggs clasped in his arms. Then was he baby, Michael, who had been dressed like the little cow, sitting in the giant- Manly Dan’s- arms. All in all, it was one of the cutest things Stan had ever seen, and he had seen a baby deer once.

Next came a picture of the twins. This one had been taken on one of the quieter days in the shack, when they lazed around and watched terrible daytime television. Stan had been puttering around in the kitchen, making a snack for them and had walked out, freezing at what he saw. Dipper and Mabel had curled around each other in his chair, the worn blanket swallowing them completely until only there heads stuck out from the sea of fabric. The two had fallen asleep with their foreheads touching and matching sleepy smiles on their faces. It made Stan want to coo before he remembered who he was and chose to snap a photo of the two instead. No one would judge him if he cooed in private.

And lastly, was a picture of him and Ford. It was old and handled, but it was still good. They’d been about twelve at the time and their smiling, sunburned faces looked nothing but happy. It made Stan’s gut twist unpleasantly just looking at it because now, the whole thing just seemed wrong.

Setting the photos into the suitcase, he grabbed the fake I.D. from the night stand. He’d now be going under the name Stuart Higgins, a seventy year old man from North Dakota.
Pocketing the card, he closed the case and picked it up, walking out of the room.

Stan hesitated when passing Stanford’s door, debating on whether or not he should say goodbye. But it would seem that his soft heart won and he carefully opened the door, wincing when it creaked loudly.
Peeking his head in, a soft smile graced his features. Stanford lay on his side, body tangled in the large, warm blanket covering him, dead to the world with a small smile on his face. Stan noticed that Stanford had left his glasses on, as they were screened awkwardly on his face. It made Stan’s chest warm with affection, the picture reminding him of a long time ago.

Setting his bag down, he tried to walk quickly and quietly over to the other, swearing when he nearly tripped over one of Ford’s journals. Snatching it up from the floor, he set it on the nightstand and glanced at Stanford, giving him a strange look when he noticed that he was still sleeping, oblivious to Stan’s struggling. Grumbling under his breath about sleeping jerks, he slid the glasses from Stanford’s face and folded them, putting them on the nightstand. Stan then fixed Stanford into a more comfortable position and tucking him in, softening considerably when Stanford let out a small sigh and snuggled into his pillow with an unintelligible mumble.

Smoothing his hand down Stanford’s head, he bent down and gave his older brother a kiss on the forehead before straightening and leaving the room, his belongings in hand.
The walk from the shack to his car seemed like the longest walk of his life. Opening his door, Stan threw the case on the passenger’s seat and collapsed into the driver’s seat. Taking a deep breath, he started the car and drove away.

(Later)

When Stanford awoke the next morning, he could tell that something was off. Firstly, his glasses were not on his face and rather, were sitting on top of the journal he knew had been on the floor yesterday. Secondly, he couldn’t remember having a nightmare.

Getting up from bed, Stanford put on his glasses and padded out of the room. The shack was eerily quiet, abnormally so for a Saturday morning. Usually the sound of terrible daytime television and Stan’s growling voice answering the television angrily filled the empty space of the shack. Walking into the kitchen, he frowned at the emptiness of the room.

“Stan?” He called out, walking around the house looking for his brother.

When no answer came from Stanley, Stanford huffed. Well if Stanley was going to be childish and not answer him, he would go up to Stanley’s room and get him. Strolling up the stairs, he grinned mischievously, opening the door. Imagine his surprise when he finds the room cleaned and empty, like no one’s ever lived in it.

“Stanley? Stan, this isn’t funny, come out.” Stanford says angrily, though fear ran through his heart at that moment.

Where the hell was Stanley?

Shaking his head, Stanford decided to check inside the gift shop for his brother. Padding into the room, he swallowed as he saw that no one was in the shack except him. Anxiety started to take hold of Stanford and he backed away and into the living room, sitting on Stan’s chair and taking a shaky breath.
Had Stanley left him? And if he did, why? Stanford couldn’t remember fighting with Stan since…

After he’d kicked Stan out. Stanford had forgotten about it of course, but he had kicked Stanley out of the shack. It hadn’t been the first time that Stanford had threatened to throw Stanley out on his ass after he’d returned. It had merely been in good fun, or what Stanford perceived to be good fun. Stanley had always laughed along and Stanford was none the wiser to the fact that Stanley thought he was serious.

Thoughts and scenarios ran through Stanford’s mind at a mile a minute, each one getting worse and worse as time passed by. Stanley was not a young man any more, he wouldn’t survive out on the streets again. It wasn’t that Stanford thought Stanley couldn’t take care of himself, he knew that Stanley could take care of himself.
Maybe he was just being paranoid. What if Stanley just went to the store? What if he was panicking for nothing and Sta would walk into the shack at any minute. He just needed to wait.

When the sun started to set, Stanford realized that Stan had left him and his heart dropped to his stomach. Trying to steady his shaking hands, Stanford picking up the phone and dialing Stan’s boy. Soos his name was, Stanford thought while clutching the phone tightly in his hand.

“Hello? Is everything alright, Mr.Pines?” Soos’ chipper voice answered, sing song in its nature.

Stanford swallowed around the lump in his throat, letting out an admittedly cringe worthy noise akin to a whine.

“Mr.Pines? Are you okay? It’s not your back again, is it?”

The concern in the young man’s voice was heart warming and Stanford made the mental not to thank him as soon as possible.

“Uh, no. This is Stanford, Stanley’s brother. You haven’t seen him today, have you?” There straight to the point, Stanford though with approval.

“Nope, haven’t seen him all day, Other Mr.Pines.”

Stanford frowned at the quick, nervous answer and sighed.

“Now Soos,” He stared, his voice taking on the tone of a strict parent. “If you know anything about Stanley’s disappearance, I need to know, and I need to know now.”

A few moments of silence followed before Soos answered him, his quiet with sadness.

“Yeah, dude. He told me he was leaving and that he would call me when he got somewhere to sleep.”

Stanford let out a shaky sigh, rubbing his eyes roughly to clear any traces of the tears that had gathered in his eyes. So Stan had left and it was all Stanford’s fault.

“I’m sorry Mr.Pines- oh hold on… It’s Stan! I’ll call you back, Mr.Pines!”

Stanford nodded as the line went dead, taking the phone and walking into his bedroom. He started to dress, putting on his coat and boots, the only thought running through his mind being ‘Go get him back.’ He nearly fell over when the phone rang, shaking him from his thoughts and he took the call.

“Hello?”

“Mr.Pines, Mr.Pines! I know where he is!” Soos eagerly cheered, making Stanford wince at the volume and the elderly, chastising voice that followed to quiet the young man.

“Where is he?” Stanford hissed, unintentionally sounding like a crazed man.

A small gulp came from the other end of the line.

“He’s at the Sleepy Deer, a motel at the edge of town.”

Sleepy Deer? Stanford let out a relieved sigh, relaxing minutely.

“Thank you Soos.”

“No problem, just promise you’ll bring him back?”

The young man sounded like he’d been abandoned by a parent, so lost and sad that it added fuel to the fire in Stanford’s mind. Letting out a grunt, Stanford hung up the phone. It would be a long walk.

(Elsewhere)

Stanley stared up at the ceiling in distaste, taking in the tacky, leaf patterned wallpaper while rain pattered against the window. It was one of the things that Stan hoped he would never have to see again. After so many years of switching between a cramped backseat of an El Diablo or a dirty, infested motel mattress, one gets tired of seeing tacky wallpapers.
Stan sat up, taking off his glasses and resting back against the headboard, grumbling at the stone pillows the bed provided. He hadn’t gotten far, Stan realized, turning red from both anger and shame that directed at himself.

He was supposed to be long
gone and out of Stanford’s way, living the life of a shady drifter once more until he died in the backseat of his car. Or at least that’s what Stan imagined the rest of his life would be. But it seemed that he couldn’t even do that tight because here he was, still clinging onto the hope that he could go back to the shack and beg for forgiveness.

So imagine his surprise when the door was kicked open and a soaking, frantic Stanford charged into the room and pounced on him, punching him in the face. Stan let out a yelp at the blow, hard enough to startle him, though soft enough to where he wouldn’t be hurt.

“Ow Stanford, what the hell?” Stan cried, looking up at Stanford with confusion and concern.

A laugh bubbled out from his twin until Stanford was cackling.

“Ford, why are you laughing?”
His answer was a loud sob.

“Why are you crying? Sixer?”

Stanford just buried his face into Stan’s chest, clinging onto him as the shakes overtook him.

Stan immediately wrapped his arms around Ford, shushing him while rocking from side to side. He ignored the unpleasant feeling of his clothing slowly growing wet, cradling Stanford in his arms.

“You left.”

Stan winced at the desolate tone, having never heard Stanford sound that upset before. It made something in Stan’s heart clench and he found himself apologizing before he could even thing of response.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered lowly, ignoring the dull roar of the television in front of them.
Stanford shook his head, pushing back so he could look at Stan with wide, earnest eyes.

“This isn’t your fault Stan, it’s mine and I’m admitting it now. I know you didn’t mean to break my project and I was too stubborn and angry to realize.”

He held up a hand when Stan opened his mouth, continuing as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

“I’ve come to terms with my mistakes and I want to move past this, with you, not fighting you. I just want you to come home.”

Stan could only gape at his twin, the words he’d wanted to hear for years ringing through him like the chime of a mighty bell. His brain was short circuting or his hearing aid had finally went out, because this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be, he just wasn’t that lucky.

“Stanley?”

The hand on his face made him blink, looking at his older brother with confused eyes. Stanford smiled softly at the other, allowing affection and warmth fill his chest for the first time in a long time. Patting Stan’s cheek, he scrambled out of the man’s lap and held his hand out.

“Let’s go?”

A small smile bloomed on Stan’s face and he took the offered hand, grabbing his bag. They were going home.

The End

Bonus:
A sneeze drifted from Stanford’s bedroom, making Stan sigh as he carried in a tray with soup and orange juice.

“How you doing, Ford?”

“Terrible.” He croaked lowly, sneezing once more, this one more like a kitten’s than a man’s.

Stan cooed and Stanford glared at him.

“I hate you.”

“I love you too, Sixer.”

decaynine  asked:

Hello! I actually had a chicken question. I plan to have property with my own fruits/vege's etc, and I would love to also have chicken hens for eggs, but I'm curious from someone that cares about them, if it's too stressful on a chicken to lay eggs all the time, and if it upsets them that they are taken? If I had chickens I would want them to be happy and healthy, just like my other animals.

I think it’s wonderful that you are concerned about the welfare of your chickens! Domestic chickens of most breeds will lay eggs once the hens reach maturity (they go from being pullets to hens). This is natural for them (as natural as any behavior of a domesticated species) and removing the eggs for your consumption won’t disturb them (broody hens might object, but long-term broodiness for a hen that isn’t going to actually hatch eggs is not good for her anyhow)!

That said, some breeds of chicken have been selectively bred over generations to be high production. This means that their bodies are pretty much egg-laying machines. This can be quite hard on their reproductive systems; sadly, many production hens die young from ovarian cancer, internal laying (their reproductive system deposits eggs internally and forms chronic infections) and many other complications such as ascites. Nearly all of these ailments are terminal, though a few owners have found short term success with hormonal implants in hens that have reproductive issues such as internal laying (this can get expensive at the vet!). My own Kua, a golden sex-linked production hen, died at age 3.5 of such cancer. Given that chickens can live for 10+ years, this is quite sad. However, there are breeds of chicken that will lay for you and also live a long life! Research which breeds you might want, and if you want long-lived hens, stay away from production type breeds (this is a shame, since they are so personable!). There are some individuals that might live a long time, but that’s the exception to the norm. Some, but not all, production breeds include: leghorns, sex-links, “comets”, “stars”, etc, ISA browns/reds, Rhode island reds (commercial). Even non-production breed hens that come from large scale hatcheries can be over-bred for production. I’ve read many cases where the most popular breeds are in such high demand that hatcheries will use the hens that lay the most eggs to hatch from… this often means these genetics are passed on. Use caution when getting commercial hatchery stock of Rocks (e.g. barred rocks), and Opringtons especially. It’s a grab bag; sometimes you get some really long lived hens, and sometimes you get egg problems. My time on the chicken forums revealed that it is a common problem in Orpingtons that come from commercial hatcheries. Research, if possible!
One other thing you can do if you want to encourage longevity over production is to make sure your hens have their natural winter break. After ruling out a hen’s individual body and genetics, egg cycles are influenced primarily by photoperiod. This is how much daylight vs. dark a hen gets. As the days get short in the winter, after her first year, she will generally slow down or stop laying. Some people will put artificial light in the coop to prompt more laying, but if you do not, she will generally have a longer life and more lay eggs later in life.
Egg laying also ceases during molting, as the body struggles to produce enough protein to create an egg as well as enough protein to create all new feathers (feathers are primarily keratin, a protein).

I hope this helps! TL;DR is just really research the breeds you want, their production rate, and where they are coming from. :)

Random Polish Words

zarżnąć kogoś - brutally kill somebody with sharp object

zerżnąć kogoś - fuck somebody emotionless or/and hard

Zarżnę cię jak świnię! - I will kill you like a pig!

Mój chłopak jest bardzo delikatny w łóżku, choć raz mógłby mnie porządnie zerżnąć. - My boyfriend is very gentle in bed, he could fuck me hard for once. 

zarżnąć [ˈzar.ʐnɔɲt͡ɕ]  - 1. destroy something by improper use; 2. kill an animal by cutting its throat; 

zarżnąć kurę znoszącą złote jajka - kill the goose [in Polish: hen] that lays the golden egg

zerżnąć [ˈzɛr.ʐnɔɲt͡ɕ] - steal somebody else’s work or idea, copy without changing anything

“This inscription is to be written on the wand with India ink.”

“Then he took a wand six feet in length having at one end the head of a serpent and at the other the tail. On the wand were plates of gold the same as the head and tail on which were engraved the characters as illustrated in Figure 1. He formed a circle by uniting each end by a golden chain which he passed through two links; he put it on the ground and placed himself in the center.”

~La Poule Noire

2

“[Fig. 6] will enable you to discover the most hidden secrets; you will be able to penetrate everywhere without being seen, and not a single word in the universe can be uttered without it coming to your ears, whether you wish to listen to it yourself or to have brought back to us by your agents when you order them to do so…repeat these words and place the talisman near your ear while you hold the ring tightly in your left hand: Nitrae, Radou, Sunundam.”

Fig. 7 “Place this ring on the little finger of your left hand and hold the talisman to your ear, and the most discreet man will divulge to you his most hidden thoughts. Here are the two words: Noctar, Raiban, and if you add a third word, which is Biranther, your greatest enemies will not be able to prevent themselves from loudly publishing their projects against you.”

~LA POULE NOIRE