Metallage (me-tal’-la-gee): When a word or phrase is treated as an object within another expression.
You chicken livered twit. The saying “Chicken-livered” insults chickens. The same goes for the catchphrase, “dumb cluck.” “Chicken” too, to mark a coward. We mustn’t forget “chicken shit” for trivial or “chicken scratch” for poor handwriting. Then there’s “chicken feed” for a small payout. One more: “chicken hearted” for coward.
Chickens are up there with rats and snakes on the “Grand List”of insulting catch phrases. Why is this?
Well, first they are birds with wings that can’t fly. What could be more absurd? They run, and may use their wings to add a little speed to their running. They look absurd rushing across the barn yard for some feed or for nothing at all. Most likely, they are running away from something anyway.
Second: if popcorn made a whining sound, instead of popping, it would sound like a chicken. “Buck-Buck-bah-dawkit” comes close. Or they may sound like a group of jabbering grandmothers trying to boss each other around in a kitchen. It is shameful and irritating.
Third: the chicken has three purposes as their existence intersects human interests: drumsticks, eggs, pillow stuffing. The myriad ways that chickens and their eggs can be prepared for eating bears witness to their centrality to human flourishing. Southern fried chicken—mmm. Baked chicken—mmm. Grilled chicken—mmm. Fried eggs—mmm. Poached eggs—mmm. Hard-boiled eggs—mmm. Need I say more?
I will say more.
Growing up in New Jersey, I had a chicken for a pet. Yes, a pet. Despite what I’ve written above, PET for me was the foremost trait and purpose for my chicken. I wrote what I wrote in my lifelong quest to manage my grief at Cluck’s sudden violent demise. My mistaken assumption is that by denigrating chickens, I can be finished with Cluck and make her loss inconsequential, like losing a paperclip or a postage stamp. I hope my grief will disappear.
Cluck and I were very close. We spent a lot of quality time together. She followed me around like a dog. When she was happy, she would flap one wing and spin around in circles. Then, one day when I was at the country fair, I saw a chicken in a glass box that played the piano. There was a dispenser that dropped corn kernels on the piano’s keys in a sequence according with the tune “Farmer in the Dell.”
My sister had a toy piano! I would sprinkle corn on the keys in the right sequence and Cluck would tap out the corresponding song. I would gather my friends in our old broken-down garage and Cluck and I would perform Fats Domino’s “Blueberry Hill” and Elvis’ “Heartbreak Hotel.” We were minor celebrities in the neighborhood.
One of Cluck’s favorite things to do was to perch on my bicycle’s handlebars and go for rides with me. One day, we were riding down my street when we came to the low-hanging branch of a maple tree. A big gray cat jumped off the limb and knocked Cluck to the ground. Before I could do anything, the cat ran off holding the unconscious Cluck’s neck in his mouth. The cat ran into the bushes. I threw down my bike and followed. I searched and searched and to my horror found a small pile of Cluck’s feathers, and then, his mutilated carcass.
I sat there and cried and cried. Then, I picked up one of Cluck’s feathers as a momento and went home. I wanted to wreak revenge on the cat, but was unsuccessful. I never saw him again. So, I had to stuff my grief. I’ve borne it all these years. Saying mean things about chickens hasn’t helped. Whenever I think about Cluck I take a couple of drinks of vodka. I think I am an alcoholic.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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