How come when it's us, it's an abortion, and when it's a chicken, it's an omelet? Are we so much better than chickens all of a sudden? When did this happen; that we passed chickens in goodness? Name six ways we're better than chickens.. See, nobody can do it! You know why? 'Cause chickens are decent people.
It was only a couple of chickens. Real chickens. The kind that walk around clucking and pecking. Which is what they were doing. Only no one else seemed to care, or even notice. This is normal? Obviously I had a little hiccup reading my notecards. Understandable. I was talking to forty orphans who had to share a dirt floor with two chickens. No one in college had ever prepared me for this scenario.
My biggest fault is that the faults I was born with grow bigger each year. It's like I was raising chickens inside me. The chickens lay eggs and the eggs hatch into other chickens, which then lay eggs. Is this any way to live a life? What with all these faults I've got going, I have to wonder. Sure, I get by. But in the end, that's not the question, is it?
The president, the secretary of state, the businessman, the preacher, the vendor, the spies, the clients and managers-all walking around Wall Street like chickens with their heads cut off-rushing to escape bankruptcy-plotting to melt down the Statue of Liberty-to press more copper pennies-to breed more headless chickens-to put more feathers in their caps-medals, diplomas, stock certificates, honorary doctorates-eggs and eggs of headless chickens-multitaskers-system hackers-who never know where they're heading-northward, backward, eastward, forward, and never homeward-(where is home)-home is in the head-(but the head is cut off)-and the nest is full of banking forms and Easter eggs with coins inside. Beheaded chickens, how do you breed chickens with their heads cut off? By teaching them how to bankrupt creativity.
In a basic agricultural society, it's easy enough to swap five chickens for a new dress or to pay a schoolteacher with a goat and three sacks of rice. Barter works less well in a more advanced economy. The logistical challenges of using chickens to buy books on Amazon.com would be formidable.
You don't have to live on a farm to have chickens; in some places, you just need a little bit of green space and a tidy chicken coop. To me, they're nearly ideal pets. They feed us more often than we feed them! We have 2 chickens, Goldie and Paprika, and they each produce 1 egg a day, sometimes more.
As you may know, KFC is under worldwide pressure to eliminate its cruelest abuses of chickens, such as cutting the beaks off baby birds; breeding chickens to grow so large, so quickly that many suffer crippling injuries; and slitting the birds' throats or dropping them into tanks of scalding-hot water while they are still alive and able to feel pain.
Later when I thought of the chickens, one of those rare pale blue eggs rose up into my throat. The chickens had been part of our family, and the egg in my throat was the feeling of something missing. It was hard and smooth and heavy, but also so fragile it might break and make me cry. It was the feeling of growing out of a favorite shirt, milk spilled on the floor, the last bit of honey in the jar, falling apple blossoms. It was the lump in the throat behind everything beautiful in life.
Speciesism is a failure to empathize with those outside one's group. In general, speciesists simply disregard the myriad nonhumans whom humans intentionally hurt and kill. Who cares if millions of mice and rats are vivisected? They're 'only rodents'. What does it matter if billions of chickens live in misery until they die in pain and fear? They're 'just chickens'. They aren't human, so they don't count. Victimizers lack empathy for their victims, but absence of empathy doesn't justify victimization, whether the victims are human or nonhuman.
I got out of the elevator and confronted Mr. Wexler. 'Killing is wrong.' 'We kill chickens, ' Mr. Wexler said. 'We kill cows. We kill trees. So big deal, we kill some drug dealers.' It was hard to argue with that kind of logic because I like cows and chickens and trees much better than drug dealers.
I got out of the elevator and confronted Mr. Wexler. "Killing is wrong." "We kill chickens," Mr. Wexler said. "We kill cows. We kill trees. So big deal, we kill some drug dealers." It was hard to argue with that kind of logic because I like cows and chickens and trees much better than drug dealers.
Smoke says the beef is much better than the squawky white birds. Her expression changed from annoyed to dismayed. Squawky white birds? Chickens? You ate Mrs. Beale's chickens?Smoke whined apologetically.Saetan leaned back in his chair. Oh, it was so satisfying to see her thrown off stride. I'm sure Mrs. Beale was delighted to feed a guest - even if she wasn't aware of it, he added dryly, remembering too well his cook's reaction when she learned about the missing hens.
Scientific studies and government records suggest that virtually all (upwards of 95 percent of) chickens become infected with E. coli (an indicator of fecal contamination) and between 39 and 75 percent of chickens in retail stores are still infected. Around 8 percent of birds become infected with salmonella (down from several years ago, when at least one in four birds was infected, which still occurs on some farms). Seventy to 90 percent are infected with another potentially deadly pathogen, campylobacter. Chlorine baths are commonly used to remove slime, odor, and bacteria. Of course, consumers might notice that their chickens don't taste quite right - how good could a drug-stuffed, disease-ridden, shit-contaminated animal possibly taste? - but the birds will be injected (or otherwise pumped up) with "broths" and salty solutions to give them what we have come to think of as the chicken look, smell, and taste. (A recent study by Consumer Reports found that chicken and turkey products, many labeled as natural, "ballooned with 10 to 30 percent of their weight as broth, flavoring, or water.
Jonathan Safran Foer
My life is very monotonous, " the fox said. "I hunt chickens: men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain fields down yonder? [... ] The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back to the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wheat in the wind...
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Why not just tell people I'm an alien from Mars. Tell them I eat live chickens and do a voodoo dance at midnight. They'll believe anything you say, because you're a reporter. But if I, Michael Jackson, were to say, 'I'm an alien from Mars and I eat live chickens and do a voodoo dance at midnight', people would say, 'Oh, man, that Michael Jackson is nuts. He's cracked up. You can't believe a damn word that comes out of his mouth.
Michael J. Jackson
Nothing is perfect, " sighed the fox. "My life is very monotonous. I run after the chickens; the men run after me. All the chickens are the same; all the men are the same. Consequently, I get a little bored. But if you tame me, my days will be as if filled with sunlight. I shall know the sound of a footstep different from all the rest... You see the fields of corn? Well, I don't eat bread. Corn is of no use to me. Corn fields remind me of nothing. Which is sad. On the other hand, your hair is the colour of gold. So think how wonderful it will be when you have tamed me. The corn, which is golden, will remind me of you. And I will come to love the sound of the wind in the field of corn. The fox fell silent and looked steadily at the little prince for a long time. "Please, " he said, "tame me!
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
William groaned. It was Vimes. Worse, he was smiling, in a humourless predatory way. "Ah, Mr de Worde, " he said, stepping inside. "There are several thousand dogs stampeding through the city at the moment. This is an interesting fact, isn't it?" He leaned against the wall and produced a cigar. "Well, I say dogs, " he said, striking a match on Goodmountain's helmet. "Mostly dogs, perhaps I should say. Some cats. More cats now, in fact, 'cos, hah, there's nothing like a, yes, a tidal wave of dogs, fighting and biting and howling, to sort of, how can I put it, give a city a certain... busyness. Especially underfoot, because - did I mention it? -they're very nervous dogs too. Oh, and did I mention cattle?" he went on, conversationally. "You know how it is, market day and so on, people are driving the cows and, my goodness, around the corner comes a wall of wailing dogs... Oh, and I forgot about the sheep. And the chickens, although I imagine there's not much left of the chickens now.