The Gorko Gazette

As many fans of Gorko chef Rambo Bolillo’s world-famous cooking show know so well, he keeps a henhouse at Gorko HQ in western Peoria stuffed with dozens of chickens. There are laying hens and roosters, but the pride of Rambo’s henhouse, the real crown jewel in his cluck tower, are his meat hens: Plymouth Rocks, Rhode Island Reds, and a whole bevvy of Orpingtons. Rambo took The Gorko on a little tour of his cheep-cheep paradise, and we learned some very valuable gastronomy lessons along the way, that we would like to share with you today.

GETTING CLOSER TO THE LAND MIGHT MEAN GETTING SPLATTERED IN A LITTLE BLOOD

‘Too many young cooks these days are using these upscale purveyors for everything, from organic peppers to fish and even meat hens,’ Rambo confided, as we strolled from the Gorko back patio, now completely smeared and bombarded with white and black chicken shit, as covens of the little hell bastards flitted, too dumb to be terrified, underfoot. ‘That is where they go wrong. To cook like the best, and I am talking about [Gorko] Chef Bolillo, you need to get close to the land, man. You need to get down on your hands and knees and pull up your own onions. You got to pick your own peas and shell them one by one, and when it comes to hens, baby, you got to personally give them the axe, pluck them with your own bloody bare hands, and feel their little hearts go waaaah.’

We asked him why he enjoyed the murder of helpless animals, if it dated back to his youth in south Milwaukee when he used to torture squirrels to death in his parents’ basement, but Rambo was already inside the feather factory, picking out a plump Rhode Island Red for the evening’s fricassée.

WHAT IS THE BEST WAY FOR AN ASPIRING CHEF TO KILL A CHICKEN, REALLY KILL IT DEAD?

‘First ya got to stun them,’ Rambo declared, standing over the already stunned meat hen, which or who would soon become something completely unrecognizable as a chicken. ‘You take them by the feet and spin them in the air, like uncles do to small human toddlers, except you do it until they are really woozy. Then they just stretch out their neck, so you can do it with a stick, a knife and cone, axe, machete, or firecracker.’

We were surprised when Rambo produced an M-80 firecracker and a lighter from under his chef’s whites and proceeded to [but we do not need any BEEF with PETA, so we have decided not to print what happened next, we saw nothing]. Before you could shout BRING HOME THE BAGELS that hen was headless.

‘Ha ha ha ha ha ha, holy shit!’ we exclaimed.

Why not just wring their necks, that is what the farmers do in the young adult fiction

‘A farmer,’ remonstrated our talented culinary genius, as he brutally ripped feathers from the corpse of the previous chicken, ‘is not a chef. A farmer does not care if his meat is tougher than a [colorful metaphor] in a Tallahassee whorehouse because the terror it experiences during its final moments forced lactic acids into the bloodstream, spoiling the color, texture, and flavor, rendering that chicken worse than rat meat.’

Do not terrify those you are about to slay, young Padawan, even if they have a brain the size of a chicken, if you expect to eat their flesh tender.

ANY LAST WORDS FOR OUR YOUNG COOKS?

‘Do your own butchering, kids,’ the gore-splattered Rambo grimly replied, as chicken skin and strands of tripe flew through the air, much of it onto this reporter, ‘choose your own chickens, hell, hand-pick every grain of salt, pay attention to your raw material, and someday you too could live in Raddy’s basement and pay for rent by cooking him delicious meals.’

You heard him, kids. Your dream is only as big as you make it.

Image generated on Magic Studio

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