Cirque du Poulet

Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! See the only thing under the sun worse than a conventional circus! Wonder at the "hilarious" antics of animals born to die! Goggle at the spectacle of birds who want only to tickle your palate! Thrill to the abomination that is… Toronto's Cirque du Poulet!
















(This row: Georges Bouillon and Ringmaster Coq au Vin.) Yes, yes, it's all very charming and twee, what with its food-inspired names and playful spirit, but all we see is a celebration of avian death.











(This row: Clucky Flameback and Mince Carter.) How could this concept be anything but grim? Combining circuses and suicidal birds—two of the worst ideas man has yet devised—is a guaranteed loser.











(This row: Mystique Whitefeather and Breasty Chesty LaRue.) The entire mural is a love letter to chickens becoming dead. Sliced by knives, dunked in boiling broth, charred, and fated to die.











We can hear the clucking chorus now: "You old pooh! I think this mural is a sheer delight!" You're welcome to it, Madam. (Or Sir?) Its lightheartedness is one of its gravest offenses. Granted, it is misdirection of a highly artistic nature, but it is cloying deception, nonetheless.

(Thanks to Dr. Caitlyn for the referral and to Dr. urbanmkr for her fine photos.)






Addendum: Can you make it out, the graffiti scrawled across Mince Carter's vignette? It reads: "Why did the chicken cross the road? Cause thats the only trip establishment would let it take. (sic)" Poignant.