Once upon a time there was a Little Red Rooster, who scratched about and uncovered some grains of wheat. He called his barnyard neighbors but couldn’t find them. After a short search he found them sitting around in a park beating on drums, and said, “Look what I found. If we work together and plant this wheat, we will have some fine bread to eat. Who will help me plant the wheat?”
“I’m the 99%,” mooed Cow. “I’m the 99%,” quacked Duck. “I’m the bleeping 99%,” honked Goose. “Ok then. I will,” said the Little Red Rooster, and he did.
After the wheat started growing, the ground turned dry and there was no rain in sight. “Who will help me water the wheat?” asked the Little Red Rooster.
“Not I,” mooed Cow. “I’d lose my workman’s compensation,” oinked Pig. “Down with Capitalism,” honked Goose. “OK. I will,” said the Little Red Rooster, and he did.
The wheat grew tall and ripened in golden grain. “Who will help me reap the wheat?” asked the Little Red Rooster.
“I’m waiting for a government handout,” mooed Cow. “I have to march on the Israeli embassy,” quacked Duck. “Not socially just,” oinked Pig. “I’ll lose my unemployment,” honked Goose. “Then I will,” said the Little Red Rooster, and he did.
When it came time to grind the flour, “It’s not fair,” mooed Cow. “I’ll be disqualified for food stamps,” quacked Duck.
When it came time to bake the bread, “There’s no union pension in it,” mooed Cow. “You’re a racist,” quacked Duck. “I’ll lose my welfare benefits,” oinked Pig. “Go kill yourself,” honked Goose.
“Well then, I’ll bake it,” said the Little Red Rooster, and he did. He pulled five fragrant and nutritious loaves of bread out of the oven heated by natural gas that he had paid for. Next, he held them up for his occupier neighbors to see.
“I want some,” mooed Cow loudly. “It’s not fair. Give me my share,” quacked Duck. “You don’t deserve all that. Hand it over,” oinked Pig. “I’m going to protest until you redistribute four loaves to me,” honked Goose.
“Nah,” replied the Little Red Rooster. “I think I’ll rest for awhile and then eat all five loaves myself.”
“Excessive profits,” bellowed Cow. “Bleeping damn Jew,” quackelled Duck. “Capitalist pig,” oinked you know who. “Equal rights,” honkety honked Goose. And they hurriedly painted picket signs to marched around the Little Red Rooster’s kitchen to chant all kinds of obscenities and threats. And they did.
Now when the Conglomerate Farmer and Secretary of Agriculture, together holding hands, came to investigate the commotion, they warned, “You must not be greedy, Little Red Rooster. Look at the oppressed Cow. Look at the disadvantaged Duck. Look at the poor underprivileged Pig. And look at the less fortunate Goose. You are guilty of racism and making third-class citizens out of them. It’s entirely your fault.”
“But-but-but I made the bread by the sweat of my comb,” protested the Little Red Rooster.
“Exactly,” the ideological Farmer and elitist Secretary of Agriculture Cronies said. “That is the wonderful heavily regulated free enterprise system; anybody in the barnyard can try to earn as much as he wants to before taxes. You should be happy to have all this freedom. In other barnyards, you would have to give all your loaves to us Cronies. Hand over the loaves to us so we can re-distribute them to your suffering neighbors. You can keep half a loaf, unless you’d rather we ate you for supper.”
And they all lived more or less happily ever after, including the Little Red Rooster, who smiled and weakly crowed, all the while looking over his wing, “I am grateful. I am grateful. Don’t think I’m not grateful.”
And that would be that, except, his occupier neighbors could never figure out why the Little Red Rooster never grew grain again and never baked any more bread.