This manly chicken appears tough enough to take on all comers. His barrel chest is burly, his “shoulders” massive, his neck suitably absent. His blood-soaked overalls strain to confine his enviable physique. Surely a muscle-bound bird like this could dispatch a crew of beer-gutted apron-wearers. But no! The bird (the “Bert”?) offers no resistance. The flames rise at his back, and still his beak wears a confident—may we say cock-y?—smile.
On further inspection, Bert’s stance carries a different meaning. Perhaps this is not the bluff (yet uncomprehending) bird we first thought. Those bulky shoulders might be not flexing, but hunching, in silent testimony to an acceptance of the End. The resignation of our would-be hero is pitiable. For if one so bold, one so virile can fall prey to the siren song of the barbecue, what chance do we have?
Ah, but we need not contemplate this. The chicken’s sacrifice means we are left merely to stuff our faces until we can’t contemplate anything at all.
All kidding aside, what the hell.
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