Saturday, December 5, 2009

Arbor Acres

At Arbor Acres, you can succeed. You can achieve your fullest potential and be the chicken you were meant to be.

Climb the podium to the Winner's Roost, Mr. or Mrs. Gold-medal Poultry. Look down upon the weak, the scrawny, the stringy and inedible.

Your comb sculpted into a fleshy wreath of laurel leaves, your biceps bulging, your inferiors wither in your shadow.

Your breast is tender, your drumsticks succulent. The others are all feathers and feet, but you! You are somebody! You are the Ideal Fowl!

"Who's the boss now?"

You are, champ!

Now how about a victory lap through the scalding tank, and then we'll get you dismembered.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)


Desdemona said...

Wow, this one is perverted in a mind-bendingly new way. He's like the Charles Atlas of poultry: nobody's going to kick sand in HIS face! (They'll just scald him, pluck him, chop him up, then cook and eat him.) *Swoon*

argumentics said...

It just made me burst into laughs. The victory lap thing. Nice blog!

Bea Elliott said...

I was wondering what your clever mind would do with this one! Beyond my expectations! A "victory lap through the scalding tank" indeed! :(