I have an outreach program, it's called groping

I fucking hate depressed chicken…it just wrecks my mood at the end of the day when I try to uncoil from the day’s jagged enema….y’know like a hypodermic to the neck from some creepy chicken dude who’s more concerned with  Shwarma jihad or a second parking garage level for the spare body parts not  picked up in the last Mumbai organ exchange….It just  wrecks the whole pickup experience and makes me feel like a victim of automatic gunfire violence who can’t vote.  The chicken is delicious but the pallor of creepiness is a special sauce that dares not speak it’s name

Chicken should be happy..made by happy gang bang

ers with no vendettas against Mark Wahlberg… But that creepy Mr Rotisserie never sleeps, never poops, never writes hailkus…he just fixates on the rotating chicken like the rest of us fixate on a laundromat’s dryer full of some lepers unmentionables

It’s like when a Chick asks me “Does this make me look fat?” 

……I always answer ‘I think it’s pretty much a voluntary thing” But why do I have to be put in such a bed of ails position where any answer will be held against me in a food court 

Meth Mondays always leads to Crash Wednesdays- and I’m burning …the trick is to find an up and coming chicken joint…there must be an app for that….something better, would be a local app for non-creepy chicken joint owners…maybe a profile or a bio…what his likes are… his hobbies…lepidopterist? lycanthropist? Sure it’ll get weird, but at least it’s out there for all to read and process.  I want to know if the Chicken Hitler drinks puddle water, or watches Downton Abbey in a saddle shoes

Chicken is an art form, not a performing art…reading the disgruntled manifesto of a rosemary and thyme-addled Social Disobedient affords the end consumer an opportunity to decide if you really want fries with that or rice pilaf…