April 29, 2011
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In that little and dingy paper box, one would expect to simply find their chicken nuggets and perhaps a dipping sauce; yet they would not expect to simply find life. Or second chances. I suppose this story is mainly about redemption and survival and all those inspiring human ethics packed in philosophical literature like all the sugar that is somehow allowed to be stuffed in milkshakes.
But you, the reader, probably does not care so much about themes and morals as compared to my presumably awkward allusions to milkshakes and nuggets. I suppose it is an odd comparison for humans, but it is perfectly understandable for me. Before I even bother to perplex you even further with my comparisons to fast food and such, I explain to you something of the utmost importance. I am a chicken nugget.
Or rather, I was a chicken nugget, sort of. I suppose I must label myself as just a nugget, rather than just a chicken nugget, for I hope you are aware those nuggets are not the one-hundred percent white breast meat chicken fritters of gold they claim to be. They mashed my brethren together and it was not even my prized meat. In fact, the meat used was the meat from my cloacae. But before I was a nugget, I was obviously a clucky chicken, or rooster, as I am a male. Still, chicken or rooster, those were the okay days, but I am now in the great-days-stage of my life. It’s more golden than the crispy skin of a nugget.
Before I enter into detail my transformation from chicken to nugget back to chicken, I must give an account of my life as a young chick. Sure, I did not talk but I did in fact squawk and peck, so you must also be wondering about my fascinating ability to read and write. I will inform you about this later on. Anyways, I led a normal life in the circumstances of a chicken bred for fast food h*ll. I was fed what all the other chickens were fed, and I suppose it was normal but I could not compare my life to that of a chicken bred on a “hippy” organic farm as I have read about in magazine. Now that would be heaven.
But I was not raised in avian heaven. And even if I wanted to enter any type of heaven I had to first proceed through the greasy depths of h*ll. Enter Dirk Wad, an Asian-American, businessman who built his fortunes with the snack product Beef Dirky, and later, his own fast food chain, Hot n’ Dirky. I am but a chicken, but the hate I harbor towards Dirk Wad, Beef Dirky, and Hot n’ Dirky! If fast food is h*ll, then Dirk Wad is the devil himself.
I am grateful that the axe sliced off my head before I entered the sizzling vat of frying oil. The axe was a clean stroke of death but that oil would have been a nightmare to swim in. But I was already dead. And then, following the routine of other nuggets, I was mashed up with some other cloacae meats, and thrown into the oil, fried into a collective body with my chicken siblings. Then, I was boxed and was to be eaten, except that the man who was to eat me ultimately spared me, somehow, and there I was, in the dumpster. And then, my world changed.
I later learned from research that the waste corporation poured a highly corrosive acid on the trash in order to break down the trash to make it easier to decompose and compact. After the employee poured the barrel of the acid, he would only be back in five hours to collect the acid-bitten trash. As the chemical seeped through the pine-green dumpster, it interacted with my collective nugget consciousness. All at once, the nugget transformed into me and four of my avian brothers, resurrected by the strange chemical and the even stranger contents of the nugget.
Straight after the rebirth, my brothers and I were primal monsters, clawing and scratching ourselves and the interior of the dumpster to escape. I was the mightiest chicken, and I resorted to eating the other chickens in order to survive. All at once, to my surprise, my intelligence sextupled, and with the chemical, I gained the equivalent to a human I.Q. of 537. In the dumpster, I learned to read English, as I read newspapers and magazines in the dumpster- all before the garbage collector arrived. I learned to write with a pen on a used notebook, to which I am writing this chronicle on.
I thank you for listening to my story, as my increased reflexes and awareness tell me the garbage-collector is arriving now. I might write more, but I must escape so that I can set fire to the Dirk Wad restaurant across the street that tried to kill me. I have now fought my way out of the dumpster, (that filthy pile of garbage it is!) and I shall now exact my revenge on that Dirk Wad! But first- how do I cross the road?

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