by Celestia Moonchild
Three years ago I went to an egg farm. Chicks, tiny, yellow, vulnerable and cheeping, were carted in stuffed in boxes. From there, they are fed grain and forced into dark, tight, claustrophobic cages and coerced into labour, ‘arbeit macht frei’ by laying their eggs for the sake of human consumption. Were I not already a vegan, I’m a vegan by the way, I would have become one on the spot.
The parallels with the holocaust are obvious. If, of course, you ignore the fact that a chicken does not have the same capacity for predictive worrying, considerations of the future, ability to conceptualise pain before it happens and the existential dread that would follow thoughts about those things. If you forget that, this is basically exactly the same as the holocaust, really.
For what is all this suffering? A calcified crust surrounding protein rich goop safely housed within a membrane, the sacred heart of feminism, the period, of a chicken. They suffer so that men may eat their suffering and revel in it. Salt, pepper, maybe a few buttery soldiers – always references to war from men – all defile the sacred womanhood of the hen. Cracking open the shell and using your violent, masculine soldier to penetrate – to violently rape a chicken – this is what a soft boiled egg is really about.
The egg industry is Hitler. Thin-bristle ‘taches hiding the quivering lip of a bigot and a coward, obsessed with feelings of inadequacy because he was scared of his strong female mother and only had one testicle. If his eggs are cracked and broken, he thought, all eggs must be cracked and broken and so he oppressed the hens, and sought to defile their Gaia spirit by consuming that which makes them divine creators.
One would not, I suspect, spread my uterine bloodclots on toast in the morning and feel okay with it. Yet, eggs are apparently fine. “They’re unfertilised!” supporters cry, “Only because you fear the female orgasm!” I reply, shouting through my finger-crochet hemp scarf, I’m a vegan by the way. Pedantics, pedantics, pedantics, whether fertilised or un-, that egg belongs to the hen that laid it. It is her bond of trust with her sex, her gender. It is her calling card, her symbol of power and it is only the fascistic tyrant who seeks to take that away from her.
It is no coincidence that more men work in the egg industry than do women. It is also no coincidence that of the women who do work there, they eat, on average, 30 fewer eggs per month. We woman know the struggle, we understand the issue. It is only those savage, meat eating dick-possessors who fear the mighty female cycle. We must end this war on woman. We must end this holocaust of hens. We must stop eating eggs.
Terminal Context would like to thank its commercial partners at Schlepfield’s Supermarkets for their sponsorship of this article. Eggs are currently buy one get one free from their fresh and easy marketplace.