Yesterday I had a day of low self-esteem. I felt that every message I sent, every action I took, betrayed my lack of worth and my hatred of myself and others.
Then, on the way home, I saw a man in a very large SUV with a very large cigar and a cowboy hat, and I said to myself, at least I’m not him, broadcasting his lack of penis and his hatred of himself and others every day. At least I’m not one of the people profiled on Dirty Jobs, squeezing baby chickens.
Then, I went and got my Parker Farm farm-share, and chatted with neighbors and acquaintances about how to cook Swiss Chard and what to do with turnips. When I got home, Bookdwarf and Rony and Toshok and I grilled steaks and corn and zucchini and eggplant and green peppers, and drank wine, and sat behind the house. And then we played UNO. And I went to bed a happy man.
(Note: You squeeze a baby chicken to make it poop, so you can look at its cloaca and determine its sex. Someone once told me it was all done by scent, but that’s not true. Some varieties of chicken can be sexed by looking at their wing-tips, but for the others you have to look at what they call the vent. Chickens are sorted by sex because pullets (girls) are worth more than cockerels (boys), and are therefore sold separately.)
Secretly Ironic 