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A Sea of Chickens

Updated on July 22, 2015

Poultry is Apparently for the Birds

Man-Handling a Chicken: About to be deliciously consumed...
Man-Handling a Chicken: About to be deliciously consumed...

Chickens Have it Rough

I kind of feel sorry for the organic chickens. We hoist them on a skewer through their buttocks, four at a time, and slow-roast them to perfection upon an open flame. Regardless of any perception or misperception of their once and future predilections when reamed by the inanimate, shiny skewer, I prefer enobling the libidos of innocent creatures to come and go as they please-- while still moving. Not stuck indefinitely while revolving in perpetuity, juices dripping.

As Dave Matthews croons perhaps not quite so literally, “Everyone goes in the end.” It is one thing to be grass fed and relatively cage-free before going to the hen house for the last, anxious time. But think of their post-humus life roasting on the rotisserie before becoming adorned with salt and pepper. And ending up thrust on the metallic kabob before sauntering down humans’ anticipating hatches and then out their breeches, following suite of the initial skewer’s former padlock! If the chickens could sense what would inevitably happen to them, they might think, “Just great. Out from my buttocks to my fresh pouring out of yours!”

Rolling Out the Chickens

For some reason that escapes me, the bosses always specifically have me roll out the chickens to the public on a dolly. Do the bosses believe that there is some peculiar correlation between me and the chickens that deserves due prominence as well as thoughtful speculation? Are the chickens “chicken” of their impending fate, through no fault of their own? Am I, on the other hand, the quite culpable, proverbial “chicken” of nonfeasance to save these harmless creatures, and via extension, myself?

I Would Want to Escape

If I was a chicken, I would want to escape at every cost to the mouth-watering, juice savorer, unhampered for the time being. I would push, claw, and peck my way past the other, less aware roosters without signing spare autographs nor prematurely losing any feathers before Thanksgiving. I would wish to remain a happy pecker! Perhaps I might become responsible for a few abrasive claw prints to ward off my premature termination. I would even barter away some of my precious, assorted eggs for safe passage to countries without extradition laws.

Thank goodness I do not think I taste like a chicken! Then again, maybe the salt that emanates from the pores of my skin after a one-sided tennis battle may warrant my shearing upon a shiny skewer hoisted by gargantuan cocks that are thrice the size of people!

There are minute degrees of separation between all living mammals whom similarly appreciate perpetuating their survival, whatever the inequities might be of braun and wit. When it comes down to it, no creature can legitimately rationalize its moral superiority that justifies its survival over others. Selfishness seems to be the standard when it comes to survival of the fittest...and most vulnerable.


I do not know about you, but I respect the cock (from a safe distance) before its untimely “wake-up” call. Nevertheless, incisor-shredding, tender morsels of freshly cooked poultry with succulent barbeque sauce are like flowery poetry, perhaps minus the revelatory paradigms.

And So it is With Humans, as Well as Chickens

I guess after I die, I will not really care whether my buttocks are thrust through a skewer. Still, I would prefer to become doused in the ocean, intact, and inside a body bag, left for the sharks’ fangs, stiff jaws, and eventually, spat out for the sea’s bottom dwellers. (After my innumerable tennis victories, I’ve had my fair share of Shark Fin Soup. So, why should I not give back a little and allow the winning to come full circle?!) For more information about precisely where I would like to eventually be buried before left to the sharks, please read Some Day You’ll Know Me (Until Then, I’ll Vent!) by Author/Digital Musician Jacque D’Artichoke, J.D.

A Waste

I accidentally dropped a chicken the other day that had to become scrapped, after all that preparation and sacrifice. I almost unthinkingly extricated the lifeless blob from the floor to the trash and moved onwards.

Chickens Want to Live, Too

I know that chickens are delicious and I, like many, intend to accentuate the experience of that tastiness. But there are ethical shortfalls when it even vaguely occurs to us that hunting another living being for its heartiness, anthropomorphism, and flavor is tasteless. There are many alternative edibles that never strut and fret their hour upon the stage. For many creatures (humans included), life is but a walking shadow.

The rooster eagerly bustles about at dawn when it kindly “wakes” us up.
Life’s perhaps unnecessary, consumption chain should also make me want to “get up” for matters optimally, as long as possible. I am sure that if granted the continued opportunity, the chickens would beg to concur. Out, out, brief cockadoodledoo!


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