Oh my gosh, this is so exciting. I can’t believe you’re making a documentary about my chicken rescue, “We Give a Cluck”! Here, I made flower crowns for everybody.

I “actually expect you to put them on.”

How did you hear about We Give a Cluck? Maybe you saw my videos on YouTube where I sing my original songs, “Lay (An Egg) With Me” and “I Would Fry 4 U.” Yes, that’s really me singing. I don’t know what you’re implying.

A big part of We Give a Cluck are the tours where you get to pet a chicken and hold a chicken and have your picture taken with a chicken. That’s why they’re all wearing little diapers. Admission starts at $150 for a two-hour tour. I don’t think that’s “ridiculous” or “insanely expensive.”

Clara, stop pecking the sound guy! I’m sorry, Clara has recently developed a taste for human flesh.

You might have heard about “The Incident,” as we call it, when the chickens pecked off one of our volunteer’s arms. It took, like, five hours. I don’t know why he didn’t just get up and walk away. But he laid there on the ground and let them peck right through the bone. He muttered something about, “This is the only way I’ll ever be free of her.” I have no idea what he meant by that.

I can’t believe I’m even bothering to answer this, it’s so silly. No, I did not kill my ex-husband and feed him to the chickens. Honestly, how would I even do that? The body would have to be put through a wood chipper first, dried at 350 degrees in an industrial oven like the one my brother-in-law runs over at the GM plant and then mixed into chicken feed using a ratio of 1 to 4. Strangling somebody and then throwing them out of a plane would be a lot easier. Hypothetically speaking.

Let me take you on a little tour of We Give a Cluck. As you can see, the chickens are happy and healthy. They have lots of toys to play with. Not many people know this, but chickens are very playful. They draw hopscotch boards on the sidewalk with chalk and then use pieces of corn as markers.

Most of our rescue chickens come from “egg mills” where they’re forced to lay eggs several hours a day with only two 15 minute breaks. I know that’s what chickens “are supposed to do,” but if you want to spend your life shitting out golf balls, be my guest.

I found several of our rescues just roaming in somebody’s yard without supervision. Thank God I came along when I did. I’m not “going around stealing people’s chickens,” I’m saving them from poultryphiles.

Poultryphiles are men who dress up like Colonel Sanders and do unspeakable things to young, innocent chickens. Chicken sex trafficking is “a real thing.”

Let me tell you Amanda’s story. She’s a Rhode Island Red we rescued from a lab that tested cosmetics on chickens. By the time she came to us, her foundation was all wrong. And she was wearing frosted pink lipstick. Can you imagine, at her age?

Now look at her. She’s positively dewy in a water-based BB cream from Mary Kay (which I sell, by the way, if you’re interested. I could use some attractive young men like you in my downstream if you know what I mean).

Let’s go inside. This is my closet. Everything I wear has feathers on it. Even my underwear. That “terrifying monstrosity,” as you call it, is my chicken suit. That’s for when my husband, Howard, and I are feeling frisky.

That “gross, weird hat” is his rooster comb. It’s called role-playing, for your information. Howard and I have a very active, healthy, perfectly normal sex life. We are perfectly normal, non-homicidal, animal-loving people until proven otherwise in a court of law.


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