Imagine you were raised surrounded by the dulcet sounds of gobbling, a proud snood and symmetrical caruncle outdone only by the most dynamic of wattles, strutting around with your fully eighteen-inch tail feathers signaling your prominence, only to be dishonored in death, described as a filthy clucker, a low-rent, bucket-dwelling, smooth-brained, Kentucky fried shitbird. You own Thanksgiving and Christmas, bitch, and these lemmings out here mistaking you for some foghorn leghorn bitch ass chicken.