You still wake up sometimes, don’t you? You wake up in the dark and
hear the screaming of the lambs smell the stinking of the chickens. And you think if you save poor Catherine, you could make them stop, don’t you? You think if Catherine lives, you won’t wake up in the dark ever again to that awful stinking of the chickens. Brave Clarice Kimli. You will let me know when the chickens stop stinking, won’t you?
I don’t think my own personal trauma would make for a very good movie. For starters, there’s very little cannibalism – and I don’t even know what I would call it. The Air Freshening of the Chickens? The Hosing Down of the Chicken Cages? It’s easy to make the lambs go silent, but how do you make the chickens not smell like death and terror?
No matter what time I leave the house in the morning, I am stuck behind or between trucks full of chickens. I hate them, because I know what happens next – the chickens are being taken to the slaughter house to become delicious meat, and I feel bad – bad for the chickens who are about to die, bad because chicken is so very delicious, and bad for my nose because the stink is HORRIFIC. I can’t even describe how bad the trucks smell; not even with the significant vocabulary prowess at my disposal. I have to hold my breath when I ride near the Death Trucks, and even then it doesn’t help – I can taste the stink. My only option is to speed the hell out of there and get as far away from the poor chickens as I possibly can, and then think about kittens and rainbows and going vegetarian for lunch. It sometimes helps, but not a lot. There is trauma. Silence of the Lambs-style trauma. Well, except for all the murder and stuff.
I would like a vacation, please.