It's just that…
Okay. (Deep breaths.) About three and a half years ago, we saw something that really did a number on the ol' sanity. It was a depiction of lust-fueled violence that just…
(Deep breaths. Calming visions of a beach, footprints in the sand. The air is warm.)
Our therapist says it's okay to talk about it. It's healing. But the nightmares only went away a few months ago. We laugh about it, you know. We put on a good face. Go to work, do errands. Don't worry about us. We're doing fine.
But we're not.
Because just when we were putting the pieces back together, just when we could almost think there really was something to believe in again, we go and run into this and it triggers the same swirling, churning doubts. It inhabits the same spot in our menagerie of anxieties.
The hint of sexual exploitation rises from this image like the odor of rot from spoiling food. The pig is slaphappy—all his horrible hopes are coming true!—the steer is clueless, and the chicken! For once, the chicken isn't the patsy! In a stunning Cinderella story, the chicken is the ringleader. The chicken, perched up there like a gargoyle, is calling the shots.
And, oh! There will be rubbing. There will be rubbing raw. There will be just the vaguest whiff of innuendo.
Their pleasure. Their bugged-out eyes. Their scheming. It's part-threesome, part-funeral.
The beach is calm. The sun is shining.