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Description

This joke stolen from the "Cock of the Walk" music video for "The Looney Tunes Show" you can see here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=REQM4kAleKc

The Looney Tunes Show is like a sitcom with Looney Tunes characters, it's a fun watch if you haven't seen it. Definitely recommend checking it out!

This was made using Sora 2 text to video. It's currently free in beta. More info in the Tech Talk section below if you want to give it a shot.

Alts: Alt1 Alt2 Alt3 Alt4 Alt5 Alt6 Alt7

Tech Talk

This video was genned using Sora 2 on Mind Video AI: https://www.mindvideo.ai/

You can get free accounts there with temporary emails, like: https://temp-mail.org/en/

With a free account you can do up to 4 basic video gens like this a day. Once you run out of attempts you can either wait a day or make another account with another temp email. The basic video gen is free, although all of the tools like on-site editing and upscaling and such cost on-site currency.

AI Story - Breakfast is Served

The sun hung low and lazy over the rolling acres of Blackthorn Ranch, painting everything in molten gold and long, lazy shadows. The air was thick with the scent of sun-warmed alfalfa, saddle leather left out too long, and the faint, primal musk of livestock waking up to another day. Inside the big weathered coop, the hens milled about in restless circles, feathers dull, combs pale, nests empty as promises broken. No eggs. Not one. For weeks the laying had dried up, leaving the farmer muttering curses under his breath and the flock in a quiet, aching slump. Their soft clucks sounded more like sighs than song.

Then the gate creaked open with a slow, deliberate groan.

He stepped through like he owned every square inch of dirt under his spurs.

A mountain of a rooster. Broad as a barn door, tall enough that his shadow swallowed half the run before he even moved. His chest was a slab of corded muscle wrapped in feathers the color of burnished copper and midnight black, each plume gleaming like it had been oiled by the devil himself. Shoulders rolled like boulders under hide; thighs thick as fence posts, spurs long and wicked-sharp, catching the light like polished steel. His comb stood tall and blood-red, throbbing with every heartbeat, wattles heavy and swaying like pendants forged in a blacksmith’s fire. When he walked, the ground seemed to give a little under his weight—slow, heavy, deliberate thuds that sent tiny tremors through the straw.

The wind shifted, carrying his scent straight into the coop: hot iron, cedar smoke, fresh-turned earth after rain, and something darker, rawer—pure, unfiltered rooster musk that hit the hens like a slug of good whiskey straight to the veins.

He stopped in the center of the run, planted his feet wide, and let his deep chest expand on a slow inhale.

“Well now,” he rumbled, voice low and gravelly, thick with a pure country-western drawl that rolled out slow and smoky like a freight train crossing the plains at midnight. “Y’all look like you been waitin’ on somethin’ fierce. Name’s Ruckus. And I reckon I’m fixin’ to give it to ya.”

The hens froze. Beaks parted. Eyes widened to black pools of hunger.

A soft, collective gasp rippled through the flock—then exploded into sound.

“Oh Lordy,” Ruby crooned, a big, plush Rhode Island Red whose curves strained against her own feathers. Her voice came out husky, trembling. “Look at them shoulders… that chest… I swear I can feel my insides rearrangin’ just lookin’ at him.”

Lila, sleek white Leghorn, pressed her breast to the wire, tail feathers fanning. “Ruckus,” she breathed, the name tasting like sin on her tongue. “That voice alone could make a hen molt right out of her skin.”

Betsy, golden-buff and built for sin, let out a throaty cluck that was half moan. “He smells like campfires and bad decisions… I’m already wettin’ the nest straw.”

Ruckus tilted his head, letting one slow, lazy grin curl his beak. He flexed—slow, deliberate—wings spreading just enough to show the slabs of muscle shifting beneath, the play of light on every hard ridge and valley. The motion sent another wave of his scent rolling over them: smoke, sweat, sun-baked hide, and that deep, animal heat that made vents clench and combs flush scarlet.

“Y’all been holdin’ back too long,” he drawled, taking one heavy step forward. The spurs scraped dirt with a metallic hiss. “Ain’t no shame in it. But ol’ Ruckus is here now. And I don’t do half-measures.”

He began to strut.

Slow circles around the coop, each stride long and rolling, hips swinging with the easy arrogance of a man who’s broken broncos and hearts in equal measure. His tail fanned low and dangerous, black plumes brushing the ground like a gunslinger’s duster. Every flex of thigh, every roll of shoulder, every deep breath that made his chest swell sent the hens into fresh paroxysms of sound.

“Ruckus—oh sweet Jesus, Ruckus!” Ruby cried, wings fluttering as she backed into her nest. Her body shuddered once, hard. Then again. A low, keening cluck tore from her throat as the first egg slid free—warm, perfect, gleaming. Then another. And another. They poured from her in a steady, rhythmic rush, piling up in the straw with soft, wet thumps. “It’s comin’—Lord, it’s comin’ so fast—yes, yes, yes!”

Lila collapsed onto her side, legs kicking, vent pulsing. Eggs cascaded in a glittering avalanche, shell after shell clicking together like coins spilling from a broken slot machine. “Your scent—your damn scent—it’s burnin’ me up inside!” she wailed, voice cracking into high, desperate squawks. “More—gimme more of that walk, big man!”

Betsy was already writhing, ample body heaving, feathers damp and sticking to her skin. “Look at them thighs… them spurs… I can feel every inch of ya just watchin’!” Eggs erupted from her in thick, heavy waves—dozens, hundreds, a flood that buried her nest and spilled over the sides. Her clucks turned to raw, throaty moans: “Ruckus, you’re a goddamn force’a nature—keep struttin’, keep struttin’—I’m gonna lay till the sun goes down!”

The run became chaos and glory.

Eggs everywhere—mountains of them, warm and smooth, rolling underfoot, stacking against the walls until the straw vanished beneath a pale tide. The air thrummed with the hens’ voices: high trills of ecstasy, low guttural groans, frantic squawks that begged and praised in the same breath. Their combined musk—sweet fertile heat, new-laid shell, sweat-slick feathers—mixed with Ruckus’s darker smoke-and-steel aroma until the whole ranch smelled like pure, primal rut.

Ruckus never broke stride.

He moved among them now, close enough that the heat rolling off his body brushed their feathers like a touch. He lowered his head to Ruby, letting his hot breath ghost across her neck. “That’s it, darlin’,” he murmured, voice a slow, velvet rumble. “Let it all go for me. Ain’t no holdin’ back when Ruckus is in the yard.”

She shuddered violently, another torrent of eggs bursting free, her whole body quaking with release. “Ruckus—Ruckus—I’d follow you to hell and lay the whole damn way!”

He chuckled—low, rough, satisfied—and turned to Lila, brushing the edge of one massive wing along her trembling flank. The contact was electric. She screamed—a pure, wild note of bliss—as eggs kept coming, endless, miraculous.

Betsy reached through the wire with a shaking wing, brushing his thick leg. “You’re built like a freight train, sugar,” she panted. “And I wanna ride every damn rail.”

He let her touch linger a heartbeat longer, then stepped back, chest heaving, comb blazing, every muscle gleaming under the climbing sun.

The flock lay sprawled, spent, panting, surrounded by a sea of eggs that stretched beyond counting—millions, it seemed, an impossible bounty unlocked by nothing more than his walk, his scent, his voice.

Ruckus planted his feet one last time, threw back his head, and let out a long, victorious crow that rolled across the ranch like summer thunder.

“Reckon that’s how it’s done, ladies,” he drawled, turning toward the open gate with the same slow, rolling swagger that had started it all. “Y’all keep layin’. I’ll be back ‘round sundown… and we’ll see about round two.”

Behind him, the hens sighed in ragged unison—soft, sated, already aching for the next dawn when that heavy tread would return.

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