Summary
Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins suggested Americans frustrated by soaring egg prices should raise backyard chickens.
Speaking on Fox & Friends Weekend and in a Wall Street Journal op-ed, she claimed to be making home chicken-raising easier as part of her five-part plan to cut costs.
Egg prices have skyrocketed due to bird flu outbreaks, with some areas seeing a dozen eggs surpass $10.
However, critics argue many Americans lack the space, legal ability, or resources to raise chickens. Experts note backyard flocks can also contract bird flu.
Chickens in every back yard will surely end the avian influenza epidemic. /s
This has got to be up there with Ted Cruz recommending that schools remove doors from their buildings to stop school shooters.
Evil. Disgusting. Heartless. Welcome to the new u.s. where getting something as simple as eggs is becoming a symbol of wealth.
Great. Lemme just get a bunch of chickens for my downtown city apartment.
Eggs.
Eggs.
Eggs.
If I keep posting this every time there are egg related political news stories, maybe it’ll come true?
I put together a little short story about how I would like to see Donald Trump meet his demise. Drowning in eggs:
The Eggsecution.
The once-proud leader, now stripped of title and dignity, stands in the center of the barren, concrete abyss. The abandoned Olympic swimming pool—thirty feet deep, dry as bone—has become their final stage. Above, the gathered masses stretch in every direction, a writhing sea of anticipation.
They do not jeer. They do not boo.
They simply chant.
“Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”
It starts as a murmur, a low thrum of human voices vibrating in unison. Then it grows, swelling into a deafening roar that rattles windows, that shudders in the bones of every person present. A chant as ancient as it is absurd, a single-minded invocation of punishment.
The first egg arcs high overhead, tracing a lazy curve before splattering against the fallen leader’s shoulder. The yolk bursts, oozing down his baggy, ugly, now-useless suit. A streak of yellow, the first of many.
Another egg. Then another.
Then dozens.
The first impacts make them flinch, stagger—hands raised in a futile shield. But soon there are too many to dodge, too many to deflect. They curl inward as the sky rains viscous judgment. The chant never stops.
“Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”
Shells crack. Yolk drips. The scent of sulfur and shame thickens in the stagnant air. It coats their skin, their hair, their pride, turning them into something less than human. Something… egg-like.
At the top of the pit, a child—no older than seven—steps forward. They hold their egg with both hands, cradling it like something precious. Reverent. With a deliberate motion, they lob it downward. It strikes the leader square on the forehead, exploding with an almost musical plap. The crowd erupts into a fresh crescendo of cheers, but the chant never falters.
“Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”
No escape. No reprieve. The pit is smooth concrete, slick now with raw egg and humiliation. They can do nothing but stand there, endure, become part of the ritual.
Somewhere in the throng, a vendor hawks boiled eggs. Another sells cartons to the unprepared. A man in a chicken suit waves encouragingly at the crowd.
The night wears on, but the spectacle does not end.
It cannot end.
Not until the last egg is thrown. Not until the last voice is hoarse.
Not until the world is rid of this one, failed leader, broken not by swords or exile, but by the inescapable weight of public yolk and scorn.
“Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”
