Chicken in the City
What are you doing here? This is a city. You are a chicken. You are rural and I am urban and never the twain shall meet, whatever the fuck that means. But the point is, sir, that you do not belong here.
All that crowing? Totally inappropriate. You see, here? in the city? We don’t all wake up at the same time. We wake up at different times, because we all have different things to do. I mean, I know that’s going to sound all radical and strange to you, being from the country and all, but we don’t all wake up at dawn and, I don’t know, milk the fucking cows or whatever. We get up when we have to and sometimes – sometimes – we have the luxury of waking up when we want to. If only there wasn’t some fucking chicken hanging around the neighborhood all cock-a-doodle-dooing it up at five A.M. in the morning Jesus fucking CHRIST already.
And anyway, you don’t even say cock-a-doodle-doo, which is what everyone – every authority on the subject – says you’re supposed to say. What’s with this a’roo-roo thing anyway? Who says that? Never mind, never mind. No. Really. I don’t actually care. Because the point is – the point? – is that you need to shut the fuck up. Zip it, chicken. I am seriously. Girl needs her beauty sleep, is all I’m sayin’. So, you know, welcome to Los Angeles! And shut the fuck up.