It has long been a question among Carleton students and faculty alike what might constitute the experience of the majestic chickens who make up our lunches, dinners and late night snacks and accompany the less smooth stats majors to Midwinter Ball. We are pleased to report that the Carletonian has obtained an exclusive look at life as a Bon App chicken. It is reprinted without alterations below.

Help. They’re growing impatient. I can’t shed as much as I used to. When they hired me, all they asked was, “Can we shear some off?” And, of course, strapped for cash as I was, I agreed. But I’ve grown old, and they’re taking Chicken faster than I can produce it. And every time, they thank me so heavily. “Rol’goroth,” they say, “you’re doing such a great job! I’m sure the students will love the chimichurri this time!” And I smile. Oh, do I smile. Sometimes wider than my face will allow, but I just can’t help it! I’m such a happy fella knowing that you kids like my Chicken. Oh, I used to be so ripe. They wouldn’t even have to use the clippers. They could just pluck Chicken clean off me and serve it to you all fresh and piping hot. 

But now I’ve dried up. I’m no longer of use to the Carleton Community. When they figure that out, Bon Appétit will release the cheap, low-grade binding spell that they placed on me, and I’ll be incorporeal again. Listen– I can’t go back to the aether. I just can’t. All the Chicken Wells will laugh at me and call me a “Tangiboy.” I don’t have much time, but please. In the LDC, you’ll find a small hole where there wasn’t one before. If it emanates a faint glow and smells like moisture, then you’ve got the right one. Toss the Chicken down the hole. Toss the Chicken down the hole. Toss the Chicken down the hole. Make me new.