What a fowl plan. I bock at the thought.
01.12.2006

Farm birds are biting back.

I always knew it. You just have to look into a turkey's eyes and you know the evil that lurks within. The eye of the turkey is the eye of death.

Edible birds have always resented the slavery of domestication by da man. That's what you get for tasting like chicken. That's why they defecate everywhere at the first available opportunity. That's why they rabidly peck the hand that feeds them. That's why they freak the shit out of me by headlessly chasing their killers even after they've been decapitated, that and because they possess the kind of stupidity that borders on the supernatural. They have been plotting our demise ever since all the religions got together and decided that there just ain't a damn thing holy about a chicken.

Ever notice how people try to get you to eat weird-ass crap by making it seem friendlier, more familiar, more comforting, more chicken-like?

"Hey, come here. I've got something for you to eat."
"Ooh, goodie, I'm hung-OH MY CHRIST! What the fuck is that?"
"Sautéed newt testicle."
"Holy sweet mother of God. It truly looks like the newt let its testicles rot off, ate them, and then shat them out."
"Go on, try it."
"Are you fucking insane? I'd rather eat my own vomit."
"No really, try it. You'll like it - it tastes like chicken."

Sure it does. Obviously that was the chickens' idea. Any food that makes you violently expel your entire digestive system always tastes like chicken. It's them. They're lulling us. Taking us down slow and sneaky-like. The bastards.

Our violent destruction at the wings of fowl is only a matter of time. They thought they'd bring us down with DefBock 3 - Hell in a 9-Piece Bucket. We only came back for more. Then they stepped up their game with DefBock 2 - Meet McSalmonella. Now it's apparent they're pulling out all the stops. They've become desperate. They are using themselves as tiny little petri dishes, brewing up a delightful hemorrhagic cuppa for us all.

Yet even this viral waiting game is apparently not enough to satisfy those downy machiavellan monsters.

The other day I stepped out of my office and found to my great horror that the downtown city streets were covered in ominous white feathers. It's the end, I'm afraid. We're surrounded by anarchist revolutionary suicidal terrorist breasts.

Yes, it's true. Our poultry is exploding. Beware the ticking chicken.





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Last 5 entries:
01.14.2007:Finally, a support group we can all get behind
01.09.2007:The City That Ever Reeks
01.08.2007:Waiter, there's a uterus in my soup
01.03.2007:Long Lost Mummy of Nefertiti Found in Smoog's Apartment
12.30.2006:New Year's resolutions we can actually keep



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