When I woke up I was a chicken, a gay chicken

As a human, my mornings had begun with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Now, it was the distinct tang of barnyard that greeted my senses. I blinked, or at least I think I did—do chickens blink? Shaking off the sleep, or perhaps the daze of transformation, I took in my surroundings. My eyes, now beady and black, took in the wooden coop, the soft hay, and other chickens, just clucking around as if everything was perfectly normal. Was I dreaming? I tried to pinch myself, but alas, wings.

Okay, let's retrace. I remember the truck, the fries I didn't get to finish. What sort of sick joke was this?