The Boy Who Cried ChickenDonald Illich
The first time he yelled it the colonel came running with his hungry regiment of angry losers and undignified officers. They stored their mess-kits back in their backpacks, ignored their grumbling bellies and their feelings of vengeance. The second time a gang of animal activists surrounded his yard, demanded the bird be freed. They liberated a spider from its web, asked him to be on the lookout for a bear that was only doing what came naturally, eating Cub Scouts, being discriminated against by hunters. With the third time the village had had enough. If it had been a wolf the townspeople would’ve left the child to fend off fangs himself. His disappearance down the beast’s gullet would’ve been sad but acceptable. Instead, they’re tortured by the smell of fried chicken, a whole flock of breasts and wings they’ll miss out on, because they didn’t understand some warnings must always be responded to, even if they fear this time will be like the last, featherless, without hope.
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