Chicken Run

In healthier times, H5N1 would be nothing more than a poorly formatted chemical formula, inviting a sneer from any Chemistry teacher worth the salt. And Tamiflu the pandemic afflicting thousands as Anna's (no, not the gal next door) latest flick threatens to hit theaters in TN. All this until now; for the chickens have turned bad long since. As the Health Dept. sends in the bunny-suit cavalry to whack'em chickens, I am left to ponder the feathers long gone.

Sunday evening, as usual, involved a session with a trusted Sony Remote™ on the couch (wrist/biceps), followed by more of the same on the bean-bag (yawn/snore). Then I decided to reward my worked-out self a worthy treat. What follows may not be for the chicken-hearted. A call to the local take-away elicits an enthusiastic recital. Only this time the Louvre had opened sans the Mona Lisa. The bunnies seemed to be doing a good job upstate. Not one bird in sight. When enquired, I could almost feel the resigned shrug from the other end. The mandarins have deemed to term it culling, which essentially is hunting birds on a large scale. Just a thought, but this might be a half-decent legal defence for celebrities caught game hunting with no more than the 007 permit.

As the menu drones on, I am shocked and awed from an ambush with no less than a non-veg non-chicken menu involving a sum total of Aries, Cancer & Pisces. Ah, the wannabes of la carte. Fillers from Page 3 of the menu, reveling in their right to final consumption. Same old, same old. Some really are. It's not often that this product line has same day production and consumption. They are usually left to stew in their own gravy, much like Chivas... ok, let's not go there. It cannot be a happy time when P3 people (I quote the PeTA motto "they're human too, you know, kinda") head to Front Page. Overpriced, overdressed and overage, many an unsuspecting mistake style for substance. Poor man’s Fugu, as it were.

So when I finally insist on the seemingly non-existent birdie, the Maitre d' flips. It's as if no chicken ever was curried at Dipali Restaurant & Bar (of course they're French. Brandy is served). ‘Omerta’ of the F&B world I guess. At a loss for words, I let my friend pick the edible. It’s never been easy being chicken. As a species it’s mightily pointless and passé being eaten without baiting either a taboo or at least a yuck in some form or the other. This species after all is mass market chow, even the odd vegetarian playing out his/her idea of a wild swing with a C-Lolipop (“rarely, only at parties, you know…”). Again, no mortal is ever born under the sign of Rooster. Except in the Far East maybe, where the choices at the local take-away would surely reinforce your faith in exterminators.

So it concludes with a bird that's always 'dressed' and eaten. The human equivalent of waxing. The pain being fleeting and final for the feathered; some doughty humans actually pay for the job. Done alive, the latter lot are no chicken. 'Good enough to eat' being expression of choice for both. By an odd twist of genome, chomper and chomped now face the same Pearly Gate.

Someday when we are all done fixing that ‘name-as-number’ virus character, we could reacquaint ourselves. After all, we appreciate your good taste.