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My friend made a delicious chicken dish and I marveled at how good the chicken tasted.
"I wouldn't mind eating one with size D breasts," I said.
"I've had one before," he boasted.
"Were they real?" I asked.
"Hardly," he said. "They were pumped full of hormones. But my stomach didn't care."
He was a true gourmet, my friend. He fondled his meat before putting it in the cart, and when he got home he seasoned it and battered it and occasionally smothered it.
"Did you ever want to eat a rooster?" I asked him.
"Once, on the farm ... in that environment you act differently sometimes."
"No excuse," he said. "You should never be attracted to a rooster."
"Why? It fries just the same."
"It's not an 'it,' it's a 'he,'" he reminded me.
"So you only eat females?"
"I find that hard to swallow."
"What about cows? Steak-wise, you enjoy the males."
"I don't do red meat," he stated. "Just the mother's milk."
"Fish?" I asked.
"Fish doesn't matter. You can't tell the difference."
My freezer was full of various sexes, so I vowed to separate them by putting some in the freezer and the rest in the fridge. If that didn't work, I would avoid one sex entirely. If that didn't work, I would discriminate against all sex and simply do soy.
My friend called that "gay."