When I woke up this morning, roused by the sweet, silvery countertenor of that happy little rooster that used to sing songs of love and promiscuity in front of my window back home in Germany, but died a sudden death of prostration last winter, while celebrating the marriage to a young, sateless biddy, and now only lives on in a recording on my alarm clock ... well, when I woke up this morning and glanced out of the window with one dozy eye, I saw the trash collectors picking up the bags and I wondered if there's any female garbagemen (resp. garbagewomen) in Europe.
Later, while the refuse lorry drove off into the rising sun and I found myself absorbed in that thought, gazing into the void, I decided that it was a good thought to begin the day with.

Some years after your fellow females had paved the way for the Russian Revolution in 1905, the 8th of March had even been proclaimed an official holiday (not just) for the working women, by that guy who now spends his retirement in one of the Saatchis' backyard. However, his sphere of control only spanned the realm of the Soviet Union and affiliates, which is why you spend this year's international day of the working woman ... well ... working.

Disclaimer: No animals were harmed or killed in the making of this text. The rooster was old and would soon have died of a swollen cockscomb anyway. And for the nymphomaniac chicken he rode in the moment of his passing and who he burried with his body, well, she's not a cold, dead hen, but managed to work her way out. A few hours later she fell in love with 3 of the neighbor's rabbits and still is to this day. Nonparous, but sexually satisfied.