by Adam Davis

Being an unconscious white male in urban westernised country certainly had it’s perks; there was the ever elusive encounter with the semi-hot McDonalds drive through girl that you’d swear would be attractive if she wasn’t wearing that stupid hat. Eating your delicious sugar wheat and milk based stew that sets you in the right mood for early workplace apathy. And the over extended greeting you gave to your supermarket butcher on your way home even though your only common link is that he knows your insatiable appetite for crumbed sausage and gravy, and that you both, indeed, know how to use… scales.

Growing up in the western world is pretty cushy gig, it has a unique way of making you feel like your mother had it wrong all along; the world does seem to revolve around you. And why should it feel any different? When you’ve grown up purchasing anything you want, practically any time you want due to the large scale importing power of corporations shipping in vast amounts of extended shelf life goods to some fluorescent warehouse we now ignorantly associate with the words “super” and market” that taste great and keep us hooked on whatever preservative number tickles our fancy.

But once you get over the slushy enduced sugar highs, imported corn snacks from Beijing and and dig a little deeper you do start to realise how messed up this entire “food” (and I use that term loosely) situation actually is…

I’m not from NASA and I’m a huge subscriber to the infinite worlds theory but lately I’ve been waking up with this insatiable feeling like maybe, just maybe were the only species in the entire galaxy who is canning whole chickens.

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