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.
5 comments:
a few weeks ago i had the idea to make a comic set in a dystopian near-future in which animals had been bred in a way that created a species of "food animals" who actually want to be eaten. (it was meant as some kind of extension to the theme of treating animals well so they don't make trouble.)
but now, after reading your blog, i'm not sure if i actually want to make this comic. it seems kind of... redundant.
Actually, Douglas Adams came up with that idea first... I'm also not really sure why one would want to invent such a breed. Cows and chickens don't have intentions anyway, and it's not like we care about them having intentions. In fact, it's probably better if they don't.
I've heard (and this is just a rumor) that for chickens, the slaughterhouse is just like Disneyland. It's no wonder this chicken is running to make his heart burst.
i drive by ezell's every morning and used to play tennis daily across the street...lemme tell you, the aroma of this beatified chicken as it's submerged into its oily grave permeates the neighborhood.
Yes, we live less than a mile and a quarter from the Seattle Ezell's.
It definitely tinges the atmosphere.
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