Whips Don't Lie

My boss slaughters his egg chickens either every fall or every other fall depending on how old they are when he gets them, on the logic that the personal hassle and carbon foot print of getting chickens to lay eggs in the winter is not worth it. As he was explaining this recently, a newer co-worker asked how he hid that from his children.   And she’s new, which means she’s never had the delightfully goth experience of watching my boss’s two charming dimpled daughters who are ALSO deeply unsentimental farm children respond to you with utterly withering scorn if you ask them something like, as I once did, “oh, what’s that chicken’s name?” The oldest daughter, all of four years old at the time,  told me in a firm, Wednesday-Adams-talking-to-a-moron voice, “We’re going to eat them. They’re not pets.”

new fave insult: