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Black Friday: A dark day indeed

If dinosaur-to-bird isn't a stretch, then we should be really worried about human-to-turkey evolution

Is this the future of human evolution?

Today is Black Friday.

If someone made a movie about humans being selectively bred to create better meat-producers to feed an occupying force of space cannibals, people would consider it a horror movie.

Yet no one cringes in queasy horror at the thought of turkeys being selectively bred for food.

Either we need to be more shocked at the plight of the turkey, or less uptight about cannibalism. I’m not sure which. Yet.

But there is hope for our rabidly consuming society. We have set aside the day after Thanksgiving to remember the countless thousands, perhaps even millions, of moist, plump turkeys that had their lives extinguished in an automated, completely mechanized way that we might frenzy around a table with our extended families.

Though it is possible that frenzying is due to arguing over politics. Always a bad idea when hungry people are grasping for mashed potatoes just out of reach.

So while you struggle through the solemn, remembering crowds in the stores today, belly heavy with the bounty of yesterday’s feast, heart heavy with the after-effects of heartburn, keep in mind the true meaning of Black Friday:

It’s about all the turkeys out there.

Happy shopping, suckers.

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So bad it won a Voidy for the next THREE consecutive years (would have been FOUR, but 2012 was a leap year)

 
 

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I Met The Egg Man, Goob Goob Ga Joob, He’s Kind Of A Shirty Bastard

Humpty Dumpty needs to avoid walls and the edges of skillets, if you ask me

There but for the grace of Super Chicken go I...

I entered my man cave this morning and found an egg on my desk.

No plate, no bowl. Just an egg. On a desk.

Not whole. Fried, sunny side up. Staring at me with a gelatinous yellow eye.

The yolk looked firm, not runny. It felt like a glare, actually, a sort of non-verbal “How could you do this to me?”

“It had naught to do with me,” I said, somewhat self-consciously, as I’m not used to talking to non-verbally communicating fried eggs. “I’m as confused as you are.”

I excused myself, ran into the house, and inventoried our supply of eggs. All present and accounted for.

“This is very strange,” I said upon returning, hands behind my back. “You did not come from my house.”

“How could you let this happen?” the egg seemed to ask in response. Had it moved after I left?

I shrugged. “How can you hold me responsible? I didn’t do it. I doubt very much the missus did it. And the children, young as they are, would most certainly have injured themselves in the attempt, and I would have put a stop to that. It’s a mystery.”

“I had dreams, you know,” the egg calmly stared back.

This was a bit unnerving. A shimmer of heat rose from its moist, glistening skin.

“I was going to be fine, strapping rooster,” it continued. “Explore places. That corner under the loquat tree, for starters. Maybe root around in the vegetable garden, assuming you ever replant it.”

Was this egg taking me to task over the sorry state of our garden?

“We’ll plant again as soon as this rain lets up,” I said. “If you hadn’t been cooked,” I continued, trying to regain the moral high ground, “you’d still have ended up on someone’s plate, as a chicken leg, or breast, or, more likely, both.”

“I could have been an egg-laying hen,” the egg stared back reproachfully. “They don’t get eaten.”

“I thought you were going to be a rooster,” I pointed out.

“I’m saying I had potential, could have been anything,” replied the egg unwaveringly.

“Of course, an egg-laying hen is just cranking out more eggs to be fried like you’ve been,” I said. “Bit disingenuous, that, isn’t it?”

The egg had no reply, but continued to stare.

“And think about me,” I continued. “I had work to do this morning. Writing. Now I’m arguing with a fried egg about wasted potential. Oh, the irony there. Plus I’ll have to clean this mess up. I bet your grease has stained my desktop.”

“You’re a heartless bastard,” stared back the egg.

“Technically, so are you,” I couldn’t help but say as I brought the plate and fork from behind my back. “You also look delicious.”

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