Saturday, November 24, 2007
Ezell’s chicken is more than famous. It is, in the chicken’s own words, “fresh, good, and fast!” (Only in Suicidefoodistan would an animal tout those particular attributes. What normal, life-loving animal prides itself on the speed which with it can deliver itself into your stomach? Or the degree to which it is edible? Who but suicidal food would carry that perverse pride even unto death and beyond?)
The chicken is too modest. Its virtues are numerous indeed, but its most miraculous quality goes unmentioned: it speaks to us from the grave, reminding us of its selling points even as it floats in the time-and-placelessness of the afterlife.
The halo signifies the chicken’s membership in the sacred fraternity of gratefully dead animals, benighted souls whose deaths are their crowning achievements. Ezell’s famous chicken is deceased and therefore liberated. Death was, and remains, his peak experience. Truly, he was born to die. Though dead, he still scampers—he might be a “late” chicken, but he’ll never be late for your dinner.