My Robot Is Pregnant theme song!

It’s Yes! on No! time again. Retired Firefighterers With Friends In Government have some strong opinions on the budget this year, and all the dudes growing illegal weed are getting the word out that we shouldn’t legalize the stuff or their personal economy’s will collapse, so I go ostrich hunting and stick my head in the sand.
Christmas came early this year from Santa’s wayward elf over in Nottingham New Hampshire. A 12 box of Sammy Adams had been stripped out and retrofitted with sawdust sweepings from the shop floor as a type of excelsior we haven’t seen since the days of wooden ships.
So many geegaws had been crammed into this package I was forced to burn off the sawdust lest a sterling silver pickle fork be lost in the excitement. It wasn’t until the fire was alight that I noticed an old pamphlet proffering knot tying instructions to those who may be in need stuck against the inside cardboard wall. This extraordinary piece of ephemera was rescued and festoons the refrigerator, dangling from a magnet adorned with a moose knee deep in either a bog or a field of grass, hard to tell with the crude photo transfer process it underwent, and the legend “Live Free or Die” writ underneath. (Here writ takes on both meanings, the general past tense of written, and the sense of a governmental command)
There was an old brass belt buckle with a rifle impressed upon it, a tortoise shell glass doorknob, leather buck knife holster, carpenter’s flat pencil with a fine point intact and plenty of stock left to whittle down.
Yes that occasionally drunken but always earnest elf had been quite busy digging in the back corners looking for just the right rusty old thing to quicken my blood and make me dream of the old days.
However it was not the oldest item that gave me the biggest thrill. It was a rolled up piece of black velvet cloth that, when unfurled, was signed illegibly in fabric paint and dated 1962. Above the signature was a portrait of a man and his prize cock, the man wearing what could be a Vietnamese rice paddy hat, or perhaps a Phillipino peasant cap. This man, with a hand rolled dangling lit from his lips, squints against the bitter smoke but keeps his eyes turned to the rooster held lovingly in in his arms. We are invited to imagine the untold fortunes this fighter has won for his master, how well he is loved, as though the man himself is the fawning orphan nephew of a rich uncle rooster.
I’ve been called “deerskin” for a number of years by the boys from the old country, and it was so because I returned one winter from California with a slick elbowed brown corduroy jacket lined with faux sheerling that was a bit matted and quite a bit farther off white than its designer’s original intention. The Black Sabbath patch stitched on like a tramp stamp at the bottom center of the back was what brought this former migrant field worker’s necessity into the realm of grunge doll hipsterdom in 1993. I suspected the streets of Portsmouth saw me as a prophet in this jacket, but that was probably my own vanity speaking to me. But it had some power, for it was what made me into Deerskin. The fact that, a few month later, back in San Francisco, I left Deerskin behind after leaving a small club where Run DMC had just performed, sealed the coats legend.
So I humbly present to you, dear reader, a new Deerskin, perhaps a Cockskin, in honor of the gallus theme, or perhaps, for familiarity, I’ll just be called Dickskin from now on.