Someone Call The Police

I, along with most American's...nay, humans, live life in ignorance about some things. One of these things being what happens inside of a chick hatchery.

That's right. A chick hatchery.

While visiting momma and Jack one evening we saw that How It's Made was on and Momma and I exclaimed "OOH!" then we saw on the info screen that they were exploring a chick hatchery. "OOHH! CHICKS!!"

Now. If you don't love a baby chick, then you just must not be human. They are little, and fluffy and soft and they make little baby chick noises. Fucking adorable.

We turn the show on just in time to see a million baby chicks falling through these metal rack things, wings flapping, legs trying to grasp at anything that will hold them. After that they are shot down a treadmill, trying to run the whole way, chirping and flapping away. Our mouth's were agape.

"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!?"

 "WHAT ARE THEY DOING TO THOSE CHICK'S?!"

"OH NOOOOOO!"

Then! Then! Then, the little treadmill transports shoots these chicks by the waiting hands of workers that pick them up to check their sex by the length of their feathers or something, then they are tossed into a tube and shot down to some other thing. I don't know what else happens. I was in shock.

In shock because they were little baby chicks, and they were hungry and they had little baby chicken head smell and not one of those workers picked up one of those chicks and loved it up, smelled it's head, nuzzled it under their chin.

Momma: Someone needs to call the police! Something is wrong here. What's going on?! What do we do!?

Me: I'll get the phone.

Mmmm. Chicken head smell.