The Walking Dead & My Backyard Chickens

[Warning: This post contains The Walking Dead season 6 spoilers, for those of you who haven’t gotten around to binge watching it yet and still have an inkling to do so. It’s on Netflix ahora. Add for those of you who loathe zombies and zombie related things, this post isn’t entirely about zombies & it doesn’t get entirely all that visually graphic. Pienso.]

If, like me, you’re frugal folk who choose to negate the ridiculously overinflated expense of cable or satellite subscriptions, you’ve just highly anticipated the arrival of season 6 of The Walking Dead on Netflix streaming. Within days, you binged every minute of its man vs zombie vs savage horrors [sans the informatively entertaining Talking Dead to pair with it because for some inexplicable reason it is NOT also on Netflix]. And of course, by the end of your 16 episode marathon, you’re left with a feeling of dread as if you are on your knees and helpless to save the longevity of a favorite character’s life. But which one?

“Not Carl!” You cry out in your sleep the night after watching episode 16. No, not our beloved cyclops (burgeoning serial killer that he is). He’s been our poster boy post apocalypse survivor since day one. No. Not. Carl.

What a relief it is to wake up to this world, by comparison, no? Where (odds are) the most savage thing you’ll face on a day-to-day basis is another tweeter referring to you as “cunt” [simply for tweeting a joke about broccoli & voting to a past president] or telling you to “try to sound a little less like a militant feminist” [for tweeting a simple joke about antifeminists]. Nobody’s truly out for any pound of flesh, blood and all. All those trolls wanna do is get your goat.

You feel a little guilty because you know no matter which cherished character took that slugger to the skull, odds are you’ll not be nearly as choked up as you were over the death of season 6’s breakout star–the invaluable cheese provider–Tabitha. The long-suppressed Marxist in you rises to the surface on such occasions as imagining a zombie apocalypse in your own future.

Everything has a use-value. Who wants to live in a world without cheese and honey? Nobody.


Domesticated several millennia ago, the highly useful chicken has become our cherished dependent, earning its keep by laying us protein-packed eggs, and, for the more pioneering homesteader (not like me), lusciously temptable body parts to devour with or without the added refinement of utensils.


Anthropomorphize your backyard chickens to your soap-operatic delight, but no matter how much you think Lola & Mystery will remain besties for life, the moment Mystery gets taunted by the meanest of the mean chicks into a terribly injured state, Lola’s ready to deliver swift mercy on her pal via beak strangling. It’s a truly savage sight to behold–your friendly little chirpers morphing into frenzied cannibals.

And so it will go, if we ever do succumb to a zombie laden world, the chickens will head back into the trees, likely to survive us all–remorselessly hardy dinosaurs to the core.

You put Mystery in home chick hospital and hope she heals well enough to flee a future beat down. She has so much more use-value potential (if she can ever walk again without stumbling on her own wing crutches).

You cross your fingers now in hopes that the upcoming season of The Walking Dead will not so closely resemble your average fun-with-that-silly-antifeminist-hashtag day on twitter–overly rife with beasty uncouth savages. Let there be Tabitha’s sisters, mindful land stewards & beekeepers. Long live the chicken tenders!


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