Monday, November 10, 2014

Chickened Out

You're secretly kind of a fuck up these days if you don't own a small flock of chickens. At least half my friends all over the country have their own chickens who crap delicious eggs from their cloacas every day, right there in their own backyards.

I wouldn't know, having never eaten one of their "products."(Cue the "WHAT?! YOU'VE NEVER HAD A FARM FRESH EGG?!") No, sadly the closest I've come is "cage-free organic" although in all honesty, there are plenty of times I think I've maybe eaten a conventional caged-egg scramble and wouldn't have known the difference.

I've got nothing but props for people with the fortitude and energy to drop a mini-farm between their kiddie slide and Weber kettle grill. But I can barely manage my own kids' diets and feces. And it's all I can do to make sure they don't get mauled by bears six months out of the year. So there is officially NO way I could monitor all of that for a gaggle of squawking, filthy, mite-infested, flightless birds who eat their own shit and peck each other on the head and in the asshole 24/7.

I still do my part to support the organic cabal by buying ONLY cage-free eggs and organic chicken from the supermarket, although I've been known to compromise these principles when in dire straits. Like last week when I was "First World starving" at the Courtyard by Marriott near the Anchorage airport and ate six buffalo wings with blue cheese dressing and celery all of which looked and tasted totally fucking amazing. It's remarkable how hunger and hot sauce can take a girl's mind off cloacas.



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