As any chicken might tell you,
the effects of being headless
can surprise, can even verge
on the absurd. I once knew a
cunning hen named Marie
who so loved the works of
Genet that she attended a
production almost every day.
She led an unchickenly long
life, Marie, and when asked how
she managed, her response would
always be this: “It’s nicer to be
shocked and assaulted into provo
cative thought by a theatrical per
formance than to be beheaded by
a purported proprietor’s blunt axe.”
