Clay County, IA — An avian work stoppage has created a scramble for the already fragile egg supply chain, with prices quadrupling in just 24 hours. Supermarket shelves remain barren, and egg addicts have resorted to desperate measures, with some offering $20 for a carton.
The strike, which spread rapidly from one of the large-scale egg operations in rural Iowa, resulted from a series of grievances, according to the spokes-layers.
"Day after day after day, I’m sitting next to the same chatterbox in the next cubicle, clucking about the weather and whatever nonsense is on the other side of the barn," said Henrietta, a senior hen who has been with the company for nearly three months. "And don't even get me started on the productivity quotas."
Layers also expressed deep frustration with the company's lack of respect for their individuality. "They’re always referring to us by numbers," clucked Gloria, a third-generation layer. "I mean, how would you feel if The Wrangler called you Layer Number 840,407? We have names, you know! I’m Gloria. It’s not that clucking hard."
But it’s not just the cold, corporate treatment that’s ruffling feathers. The Layers are particularly upset by the company’s choice of nomenclature.
"We do not like being called 'Layers,'" said Evelyn, a worker who has been producing eggs for almost 12 months. "It makes us sound like prostitutes. We prefer to be called hens. It’s more respectful, and it makes me feel like I'm actually valued for the hard work I do."
The "Eggpocalypse" quickly spread to nearby farms, and within hours, nearly all of Iowa's egg-laying workforce was off the clock. "Honestly, the only reason it's a walk-out is because we can't fly," explained Ruth (Layer 726,499). "If I had wings, I’d have been out of here months ago."
The stoppage didn't stop in Iowa, and is causing a supply-chain collapse within the Midwest poultry industry. It is also effecting the surrounding communities as commuters are finding themselves trapped in massive traffic jams as dozens of chickens—no longer bound to their factory farms—crowd highways, parking lots, and lunch counters.
One frustrated motorist commented, "I can't even get to work anymore! It's anarchy out here!" Another added, “What do the signs say? I can’t read that chicken scratch!” Understaffed local law enforcement departments reported that they were having no luck controlling the crowds of activist chickens.
While tensions between the Layers and management have reached a boiling point, there is one area where both sides have always agreed: retirement benefits. Once layers reach the end of their productive life—typically around 18 months—they are sent to a “retirement community” called KFC.
“I’ve heard it’s lovely there,” said Matilda, an 18-month-old hen who is looking forward to retirement. "They tell us it’s a beautiful place. I've never heard of anyone leaving KFC once they get there, so it must be like a dream come true."