Monday, March 08, 2004
Joint Posting Action! (finally)
(the other 2/3 of this crazy chickenfest are on carlene's blog... which you already know by now.)
And now, a selection from the inspirational collection Chicken Soups for the Cannibalistic Chicken's Soul: a short story entitled "Hatching a New Existence" by Milton Cooper. The story is based on the author's own experience.
--
"Hatching a New Existence"
We sat in a circle on hard wooden chairs. The atmosphere in the small room was one of nervous expectation coupled with scarcely hidden hunger. I looked around. Several of these faces were familiar; many belonged to other people, from other farms. All eyes were trained on a round metal platter on a short stool in the center of the circle. An aroma flowed in powerful waves toward my eager nostrils, and the gourmet in me salivated. I had to stifle a moan. "Corpses," I told myself. "That's what they are. My poor, slaughtered brothers and sisters." Though they had been my mantra for the last four months, the words did me no good. Like always, I was the first one to fold. As I tasted the juices of my sweet depravity, I was consumately satisfied.
I walked home in utter solitude, sifting through words in an attempt to describe the weight on my soul. Pain, despair, utter frustration all fell short of the ghastly horror that inhabited my very being. I began to peck at my own leg, for want of any other outlet for my agony. I disgusted myself.
"Who ARE you??" I screamed. "What kind of sick chicken can't kick chicken? Why, I'm... I'm... I'm a Chicken McMonster!! A tasty, fresh, grilled Chicken McMonster... mmm.."
WHACK! Something hit me on the top of the head. It stung sharply, and I fell to the ground, wings flapping in a futile reflex. I looked down and saw a packet of barbecue sauce. Before I had a chance to curse the wicked irony, a heavy bag landed with a thud inches from my head, jarring me so that I couldn't read the label for a moment. When the world stopped shaking, I made out the word "Soy," along with half the word "Nuggets." When I went to sleep that night, my mind was swarming with thought. Could I learn to love this vegetarian staple? Might the solution to my heinous problem be no further away than that scarcely populated aisle at the grocery store, frequented by hippies and tofools? Does broth count?
I awoke with a sense of peace that can only described as peaceful. Since that day I have never touched a chicken, as I will gladly place my hand over my heart and swear to.
Frog legs, however, are deliciously underrated.
(the other 2/3 of this crazy chickenfest are on carlene's blog... which you already know by now.)
And now, a selection from the inspirational collection Chicken Soups for the Cannibalistic Chicken's Soul: a short story entitled "Hatching a New Existence" by Milton Cooper. The story is based on the author's own experience.
--
"Hatching a New Existence"
We sat in a circle on hard wooden chairs. The atmosphere in the small room was one of nervous expectation coupled with scarcely hidden hunger. I looked around. Several of these faces were familiar; many belonged to other people, from other farms. All eyes were trained on a round metal platter on a short stool in the center of the circle. An aroma flowed in powerful waves toward my eager nostrils, and the gourmet in me salivated. I had to stifle a moan. "Corpses," I told myself. "That's what they are. My poor, slaughtered brothers and sisters." Though they had been my mantra for the last four months, the words did me no good. Like always, I was the first one to fold. As I tasted the juices of my sweet depravity, I was consumately satisfied.
I walked home in utter solitude, sifting through words in an attempt to describe the weight on my soul. Pain, despair, utter frustration all fell short of the ghastly horror that inhabited my very being. I began to peck at my own leg, for want of any other outlet for my agony. I disgusted myself.
"Who ARE you??" I screamed. "What kind of sick chicken can't kick chicken? Why, I'm... I'm... I'm a Chicken McMonster!! A tasty, fresh, grilled Chicken McMonster... mmm.."
WHACK! Something hit me on the top of the head. It stung sharply, and I fell to the ground, wings flapping in a futile reflex. I looked down and saw a packet of barbecue sauce. Before I had a chance to curse the wicked irony, a heavy bag landed with a thud inches from my head, jarring me so that I couldn't read the label for a moment. When the world stopped shaking, I made out the word "Soy," along with half the word "Nuggets." When I went to sleep that night, my mind was swarming with thought. Could I learn to love this vegetarian staple? Might the solution to my heinous problem be no further away than that scarcely populated aisle at the grocery store, frequented by hippies and tofools? Does broth count?
I awoke with a sense of peace that can only described as peaceful. Since that day I have never touched a chicken, as I will gladly place my hand over my heart and swear to.
Frog legs, however, are deliciously underrated.
