My Chicken Death Couch and a retraction for Mr. Sutherland
I sit upon a thousand deaths of chickens. Or maybe just two big chickens. My beautiful couch, made of leather, cotton, and "filler", houses the misfortune of a poultry birthright. Their pain has given me many hours of comfort and satisfying naps. I find their tiny badge of courage when I awake, mocking my rest, scornful of my peace. A token down feather graces my anti-embolism sock and I recoil, believing it is a spider. It is much worse, it is Chicken Carnage. I fall asleep once more, my outrage fleeting as I think of our society's cruel misuse of poultry and livestock. I had chicken for lunch. I snore a satiated and swollen snore of a Pretencious, Obese America.

A&E recently ran a 24-hour marathon of the T.V. show, 24, with Kiefer Sutherland. I distinctly remember telling a few people how much I abhor Mr. Sutherland's thespian skills as I sat there unblinking for 12 hours, rapt with guilty pleasure. The bastards at A&E failed to inform the viewers that the 24 hours would be broken into two 12-hour segments. I was horrified to discover that I would have to sleep in the middle of my “marathon”. Begrudgingly, I slept on my Chicken Death Couch until 8 a.m. the next morning when Jack and I tracked those evil terrorists to their appropriately pointless demise and stopped the nuclear warhead from hitting Los Angeles.