Welcome to the gizzardingest town this side of the Rio Grande! Other burgs boast the biggest birds, the tangiest wings, the crispiest skin. (Ulp.) But here in Gizzard City, we believe in specializing! We do one thing, and we do it the best! And that's gizzards. What happens to the rest of the chicken? Who cares! Let the raccoons have 'em! We keep the only part that matters! So come on down to Gizzard City and get gizzardized!
This chicken, this ambassador of Gizzard City (the only such city in the world, thank goodness), suffers the worst form of objectification. "Food" animals the world over are accustomed to being exploited. They are routinely equated with the substance of which they are made. But this! This goes beyond the familiar insult.
In this, we see the bird exalted for, and reduced to, one particular body part: the gizzard. (The ventriculus. The muscular pouch in the stomach of many birds and reptiles that grinds food, often with the aid of ingested pebbles or grit. Sounds delish, right?)
You, chicken, are not a living thing. Nor are you merely food for Man. No, you are a complex incubator for one small, rubbery morsel. You are an object valued only for a couple fleshy inches you provide.
And see? The chicken holds the gizzard (his own gizzard?) aloft on the tines of his fork, proudly, gratefully—how it gleams!—honored to have achieved some small purpose in this world. He reminds one of a sacrifice on the steps of a great and terrible Aztec pyramid, happy to see his dripping heart torn from his chest, knowing that the gods are well pleased.
(Thanks to Dr. Mac for the referral.)
Addendum: This representation—also taken from the official website—seems a little more realistic: the shock, the fighting posture, the natural desire to rake talons across the flesh of anyone who would relieve it of its gizzard. Not a suicidefoodistically pure image, but an honest one.