Fun with Chickens

HEY, I’M ONLY 55!

2011-09-10T15:02:00.000-07:00

It’s official: I am now less mature than my 13-year-old son. The following pieces of dialogue should be enough to convince you.

My Son: Hey Dad, what’s for dinner tonight?
Me: I believe your mother said we are having poop.

Son: Dad, you’ll never guess what this kid did at school today.
Me: Pooped in his pants?
Son: No.
Me: Threw up?
Son: No. Come on, Dad.
Me: Well, then I really don’t care.

Son: Dad, how come the dog smells like Cheerios?
Me: Because I gave her some earlier and she just farted.
Wife: Get a life, will you?

Son: Hey Dad, do we have anything for lunch?
Me: I think there’s a carton of poop in the fridge.
Son: No, seriously.
Me: I’m just kidding. There’s also a jar of pee.

HARRY POTTER? I JUST DON’T GET IT

2011-08-27T17:19:00.000-07:00

I haven’t read the Harry Potter books, and I barely stayed awake during two of the films, so I freely admit I am no expert, and I’m sure that Potter fanatics (“Potheads?”) will take pleasure in shooting holes in my theory.

But from my brief exposure, I must state that the series just doesn’t work for me, and here’s why.

Every time Harry gets in a jam, he always resorts to the same solution for his predicament: Magic. To me, this automatically yanks all the suspense out of these stories.

I know nothing will ever happen to Harry, and that he is never really in danger, because magic will always save the day. It just seems so convenient, such a cop-out and a cheat, and that there are no restrictions or rules regarding how magic can save Harry each time.

Let’s compare this to another extremely successful franchise, the James Bond films. I am completely aware that James Bond will also get out of any tight squeeze and, like most protagonists in a series of books/films, Bond will not die. (Cash cows are rarely slaughtered.)

But here’s the difference: James Bond cannot just conveniently conjure magical powers out of nowhere; he must use his wits and strength, and deal with real people and utilize things in the real world to stay alive.

Yes, I know that it is ridiculous when Bond uses a tree limb as a snowboard to escape villains, but the point is that we have all seen tree limbs, except that Bond is creative enough to use such ordinary things in a creative way to beat the bad guys.

Harry doesn't need to be clever or outsmart anyone. When he gets in a fix, he just whips out his wand and, shazam! Problem solved.

Now don’t get me wrong. I think J.K. Rowling absolutely deserves all the money she has made from the Harry Potter books and films. And any author whose work results in millions of young people standing in line worldwide to buy a book should be given the Nobel Peace Prize, the Pulitzer Prize, a Peabody Award, the People’s Choice Award, the Zombie Chicken Award, etc., etc.

I guess some people enjoy the fantasy of being able to access magic whenever things get harry—er, hairy. But I’d rather be like a James Bond, and be resourceful enough to use whatever is handy to stay alive and--of course--get the girl.

I GAVE HER $42 AND A BAG OF DOG SHIT

2011-08-23T18:51:00.000-07:00

Maybe some of you pet owners have experienced this, but it was a new one for me.

The veterinarian needed a fecal sample to test our Golden Retriever, Molly, for intestinal parasites.

Hey, no problem, I figured. I’ve got a whole backyard full of dog crap! Come on by, Doc, and take your pick among the variety of colors and textures. You can find the pungent piles right next to the spots of dying grass where my little princess empties her bladder every five minutes.

If only it was that easy. You see, the vet needed a fresh fecal sample that was less than four hours old.

So now I can add monitoring my dog’s bowel movements to my resume. As soon as I see her contributing her morning glory, I need to run out to the back yard and scoop up a dollop of doody.

But wait: Is there is a special kind of container in which I must place this cargo of crap? Maybe some sort of non-corrosive moon metal? The vet tells me that any container will be fine, even a baggie. OK, glad I got some clarification on that one. Saved me a trip to Petco.

For some reason, I felt ridiculous as I drove to the vet with a baggie full of dog shit on the seat next to me. (Maybe it was the seat belt. At least I could use the carpool lane.)

And then I felt doubly ridiculous when I approached the attractive young vet assistant at the counter, because then I had to explain exactly why I was there.

Assistant: Can I help you?

Me: Um, yeah. I have a fecal sample. It’s my dog’s.

(I added that last part just so there was no confusion, though now that I think about it, I wonder what my own sample would have shown. Food for thought.)

Assistant: OK.

Silence.

Me: Uh, do you want it?

Assistant: Sure.

Her beautiful azure eyes oozed with erotic ecstasy as I reached up and handed her a Ziploc bag brimming with crap.

Assistant: That will be forty-two dollars today.

I felt like I was in some weird porno movie, because in what other scenario would excrement and money be in such close proximity? Aside from my wedding night, that is.

Next time, maybe I will smear some chocolate pudding on my cash beforehand just to see her expression when I fork over the fee. Oh well, that gives me something to look forward to.

WHY GUYS SHOULDN’T LOOK AT OTHER GUYS’ FEET

2011-07-12T19:07:00.000-07:00

I rarely ever notice what shoes someone is wearing, except when I’m interested in buying shoes for myself.

Since I recently decided that I didn’t want to wear only sneakers while I’m wearing shorts, I thought I’d look at some alternative casual footwear.

Along with shopping for shoes where I buy all my clothes (Pep Boys) I also found myself constantly looking at what shoes guys are wearing along with their shorts.

I know that’s a weird thing to do, but take comfort in the fact that I have been mentally castigating myself every time I catch myself doing this.

The logic was, of course, that if I saw something I liked, I would perhaps copy that look since I have absolutely no style of my own. I still dress the way I did in junior high, with flippers and a top hat.

My main conclusion from this extensive fieldwork is that most guys wear sandals with shorts. I do have a pair of decent sandals, but I don’t like wearing them for extended periods of time. And I certainly don’t understand how people can drive wearing sandals.

They are so floppy and flimsy, I’m concerned that my sandal would get caught on the gas pedal and I’d wind up mowing down some old folks at a farmers market. (Should I ever get charged with that, I’ll just say that my father molested me. Thanks, Casey!)

So, sandals are not an option. My choice in this was confirmed last weekend when I noticed a Starbucks patron wearing sandals. His feet were truly filthy. The bottom of his feet seemed clean enough, but the top of his feet looked like they were caked with dirt.

See, I said to myself, there’s another strike against wearing sandals. People can see how dirty your feet are.

But it was then that I noticed I was looking at the feet of an African-American.

Did I feel ashamed? Yes. Foolish? Yes. Like a racist? Yes.

Fucking sandals.

EVEN MORE THINGS WE CAN ALL AGREE ON (CAN’T WE?)

2011-07-11T16:31:00.000-07:00

• If your nickname is “Giggles,” and you’re over 13 years old, something has gone terribly wrong.

• Whenever a character in a movie or TV show picks up a large box or sips from a paper cup, it always looks fake, like the box or the cup is just an empty prop.

• The interstitial music on NPR (the music between breaks) is consistently annoying.

• If you still believe in God or some sort of divine justice, consider this: Clarence Clemons is dead, and Phillip Garrido still lives.

• Why do people say, “Where are you at”? Do they really need to include the “at”?

• You know all those action movies in which the hero falls five stories, smashes through a wall, and then gets up with just a few grunts and a shake of the head? Exactly how much longer are we expected to suspend our disbelief?

• Can we at least all agree on good writing when we see it? When Don Draper asks Peggy Olson on “Mad Men” if she ever thinks about the baby she gave up for adoption, Peggy simply replies, “Playgrounds.”

• Whenever people say that they “built a house,” 90 percent of the time someone else did the actual building.

• On “The Biggest Loser,” morbidly obese people cry about having too much food to eat. Only in America.

• Half of the scenes in any Sundance film consist of the main character staring thoughtfully into space.

• Why do people say, “That’s too funny”? How exactly can something be too funny, like it’s dangerous or something?

WHY I WALKED OUT OF A MEETING

2011-04-12T16:03:00.000-07:00

At some point, we all want to walk out of work-related meetings, mostly because 99.99999% of them are useless, ridiculous, and annoying.

I usually stay for the duration, partially out of optimism that maybe I’ll find something valuable, but mainly because I’ve had to give presentations myself and I know how difficult it can be.

A recent workshop I attended was called, “Empowering Students to Make a Difference,” and it was supposed to help teachers instill leadership skills in students.

Before it began, one colleague told me that this speaker was “tremendous.” I can now add that word, along with “amazing” and “phenomenal,” to my list of Words People Use to Describe Things When Actually the Opposite is True. Consider yourself warned, my friends.

This workshop began with the speaker, who was a dead ringer for Ned Flanders on “The Simpsons,” explaining that we will be moving around a lot and getting in groups during this session.

That’s like going to a play that forces the audience members to be part of the performance and interact with the characters. My feeling is: I’m in the audience, you are on stage, do your job and leave me alone.

But I stayed anyway, hoping to see something “tremendous.” Plus, I was giving my own presentation later that day and therefore didn’t want to create any bad karma.

On the walls of our meeting room, Ned had placed copies of Time magazine covers portraying famous leaders. We were instructed to write descriptive words (“Determined,” “Sincere,” “Inspirational,” etc.) on post-it notes and walk around the room and place our notes on the portraits. We were then asked to share what we wrote. (My portrait was of Abe Lincoln, and 24 of the 25 post-its said “Honest.” Wow, I bet you didn’t see that one coming.)

What was the point of this exercise? How the hell should I know?

One of the magazine covers pictured Barack Obama. As we shared what the post-its said, Ned pointed out as a side note that he didn’t vote for Obama.

I thought that was a weird thing to say in this setting, but OK. I am friendly with people of various political persuasions, but at work, I usually keep my political opinions to myself.

Ned couldn’t help himself, though, and his comment stuck in my craw. (Where exactly is one’s craw, anyway?) Because if he didn’t vote for Obama, that probably means he voted for… Sarah Palin!

Wait a minute. He’s conducting a leadership workshop and he voted for Palin?! (Yeah, I know John McCain was at the top of the ticket, but it was still a vote for Palin, and if he voted for a wacko third-party candidate, that was worse.)

Say what you want about Palin, but the truth is that the Time magazine covers showed people from a whole other (intelligent) universe: Einstein, JFK, Mother Teresa, Ghandi, and the like.

So, that was the first chink in his armor of credibility. Still, I stuck with him.

A few minutes later, Ned mentioned that every Friday, his wife, a teacher, would show her students a movie that provides a good example of leadership, “such as ‘Braveheart.’”

Wait a minute: Isn’t that a movie directed and starring Mel Gibson, the anti-Semitic, racist, girlfriend-beating, drunk-driving jerk-off?

Keep in mind that this is a conference about leadership, in which Ned listed Trust, Compassion, Stability, and Hope as the four reasons people follow others.

Does Gibson display any of these? And why exactly is Ned’s wife showing movies to her class every week, especially R-rated ones?

That was it for me. I’m thinking to myself, “I’m 54 years old. How many more ridiculous meetings am I going to sit through in my life, instead of doing the right thing and leaving?”

So I left, just as we were getting ready for another fascinating group activity. As I made for the door, Ned loudly bid me a sarcastic “Oh, OK, goodbye.”

And that was when I flung my feces at him. Hey, he wanted an evaluation!

GOD TOLD ME TO WRITE THIS

2011-04-11T15:41:00.000-07:00

“God is a concept,
by which we measure our pain.”
--John Lennon

It seems like most people have it all figured out.

The majority of people find a way to process and explain everything that happens by filtering it through their chosen belief, whether it’s God, Jesus, Buddha, Mother Earth, Allah, Yoga, Scientology, the Mystic Chicken, or the Shadow Government.

Whatever comes their way, their one all-encompassing philosophy of choice seems to apply and explains everything.

Is that because drinking that particular Kool-Aid makes life easier to cope with and understand, like some sort of cosmic security blanket?

Struggling to comprehend the overwhelming injustice, violence and evil that exists in the world (in people?) can make you feel lost, alone, and frustrated. Isn’t it much easier and convenient to just have one answer—one size that fits all?

I have no such singular answer that I can stretch and manipulate to easily explain away every incomprehensible event that occurs. I wish I did.

Sometimes I envy those people because it boils life down to a much more manageable experience. Yet, most of the time, I am just too skeptical of any quick fix.

As an example, let’s take a common belief in God. Some recent events will help me illustrate what I’m talking about.

• Event #1: In God We Trust, Despite Evidence to the Contrary

You probably read the horrific story last week about the Brazilian nut who killed 12 children at point-blank range, and wounded several others, while shouting, “I am going to kill you all!”

One girl was shot in the leg, and her mother wonders if her child will ever be able to walk again. Here’s her quote:

“She’s such an active child. That’s the biggest fear I have, her not being able to walk again. But we have to trust in God.”

Amazing, isn’t it? She is still able to “trust in God” after what happened to her kid? I would imagine that she has been placing her trust in God before this happened, and yet look how that worked out! Yet, she still hangs on to this.

Is it just too scary to think that there is no superpower (Daddy?) that will take care of everything for us?

By the way, the gunman, before killing himself, left a note with these instructions:

“A follower of God must visit my grave at least once. He must pray before my grave and ask God to forgive me for what I have done.”

That’s right, he believed in God, too, and since God will forgive him, he won’t really suffer for his actions.

You might be thinking that this guy is just mentally ill…but then you would just be proving my point, wouldn’t you?

• Event #2: God Knew Drugs Were Good for Me

One week into the season, baseball player Manny Ramirez tested positive for a performance-enhancing substance and decided to retire rather than face another drug ban.

“I’m at ease,” Ramirez said. “God knows what’s best for me.”

Hmm. So, if God knows what’s best for Manny, why didn’t God step in when Manny was first considering using these drugs?

The argument, of course, is that God gave Manny free will, and it was his choice to use the drugs in the first place. I actually would tend to agree with that.

But I don’t think Manny would agree with that. And yet, when he gets busted again for the same thing, he conveniently brings in God’s name, as if He has been guiding him all his life.

• Event #3: God Made Me Lose

Matt and Christa are contestants on “Survivor” this season, and both are very Christian. Before their final one-on-one match, they each prayed to God for victory.

Matt beat Christa in the competition, and she was sent home.

Does this mean that God liked Matt better? Didn’t they both pray for victory? Will Christa now become an atheist? I’m sure these cool kids would answer “no” to both questions, and they will find a way to twist their views so that they are at peace, there is no free will, and that Santa Claus is watching over all of us.

To Sum Up:
Considering these three examples I have described here, in which peoples’ beliefs in a higher power seem to backfire on them—and yet they still continue to believe—I can come to at least one conclusion, even though it may be a cliché:

You can’t have it both ways, people.

Life is made up of your own personal choices, and it’s a cop-out and a shirking of responsibility to attribute everything to God…or Allah…or Buddha…or whomever.

And if you have never heard the song, “God,” by John Lennon, by all means seek it out immediately.

LIFE’S TOO SHORT FOR THIS

2011-03-13T17:27:00.000-07:00

As I begin to round the corner to my mid-50s, I find myself dwelling in the morose alleyways of my brain and reassessing how I am spending the dwindling years of my life. Namely, I need to be more selective about what I watch on TV.

For the past year, whenever I found myself comatose in front of the electronic teat, I asked myself, “What other, more constructive things could I be doing with whatever precious time I have left?”

Perhaps I could get involved in a humanitarian cause, write a great novel, read the classics, or maybe have a deep, meaningful conversation with the lovely Mrs. Jerry K. (OK, I’m just kidding about that last one, but you get the idea.)

After several minutes of soul-searching, I decided that instead of wasting precious prime-time hours watching TV, I am going to utilize my time much more wisely by writing about TV.

Specifically, here are the TV shows that I have stopped watching, and the reasons why.

• American Idol:
First of all, I’m convinced that the weirdos who audition at the beginning of each season are just doing it as a joke or a dare. Secondly, the singers are all atrocious in that they all use that same Mariah Carey-esque gimmicky vocal theatrics that are completely devoid of any real emotion or soul. Thirdly, I’ve learned that the audience members have to prove themselves in a humiliating mock-game-show audition before they are deemed loud and enthusiastic and idiotic enough to be allowed into the theater.

• V:
How can anyone take one look at Anna, the main alien leader and spokesperson, and not realize immediately that she is completely evil? But aside from that, NOTHING EVER HAPPENS.

• Jersey Shore:
At first, this was the ultimate guilty pleasure/train wreck that requires a shower after each episode. Like most reality shows, we watch so that we can feel superior, but now the joke’s on us, because these kids are all now richer than we will ever be. These jerk-offs ended up making us feel like suckers.

• Chuck:
When this show began, it was about a nerdy guy who is accidentally forced to become a secret agent. He would stumble about and pine after the hot blonde secret agent, and that was something the average schmo could identify with. Now, Chuck is a super-agent with a cool new haircut and he bangs that hot chick in every episode. Why should we care?

• Glee:
Look, I’m totally in favor of gay rights, I’ve worked with gay people all my life, and I believe there’s no reason they shouldn’t be allowed to marry and equally feel our pain. But this show is just way too gay for me. I mean, Hell-o! If I hear their version of “Don’t Stop Believin’” one more time, my head will explode. It’s a shitty song to begin with, and should only be played during the bottom of the ninth inning of a baseball game, if at all. This show is almost grating enough for me to become un-infatuated with Gwyneth Paltrow, who is the ultimate shiksha goddess ice princess and every Jewish guy’s fantasy. (I said almost.)

Other TV shows I’ve stopped watching because (a) each episode is basically the same, and, again (b) NOTHING EVER HAPPENS:
Top Chef
Burn Notice
Dangerous Housewives
The Biggest Loser

So, what will I keep watching?
Boardwalk Empire
True Blood
Weeds
Breaking Bad
The Walking Dead
Men of a Certain Age
Fringe (especially the third season)
The Daily Show and The Colbert Report (the best written comedy shows on TV)
Mad Men (the best written, best acted, best looking show on TV)

What say you, dear readers? What TV shows have you stopped watching, or will continue to watch?

THINGS I WISH MY 12-YEAR-OLD KID WOULD SAY

2011-01-30T13:42:00.000-08:00

• “The first book in this series was so good, I can hardly wait to read the next five!”

• “I’m going to turn off my iPod and my cell phone for the weekend so I can concentrate on doing extra credit work in Algebra.”

• “I finished all of my chores, Dad. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

• “I’m going to go brush my teeth and get ready for bed.”

• “I’m going to take the dog for a walk. Be back in an hour.”

• “I don’t need my allowance this week, Dad. You’ve spent plenty on me already.”

• “Pass the broccoli, please.”

• “I’m going to stay after school for tutoring this week so I can raise my grades.”

• “I don’t want to see that movie, Dad. It’s rated R. Why don’t you and Mom go see it, and I’ll stay home?”

• “Good night, Dad. I love you.”

AM I A RACIST?

2011-01-17T19:14:00.000-08:00

In honor of Martin Luther King on his birthday, I thought I’d share this little anecdote that led me to ask the above question. Read it, and then you can decide for yourself.

My son has played basketball for the city junior league for several years. Before the season begins, each kid tries out so that the coaches can score them and create balanced teams.

At least that’s the pretense. The reality is that most coaches already know the kids and the parents and create the strongest teams they can. If you are not part of this clique, your kid ends up on the shitty team. Guess who’s not part of this clique?

So, we begin each season on a positive note, hoping that our team will win at least a couple of games. About half way through the season, however, I end up driving a dejected kid to the game while he sighs, “We’re just gonna lose anyway.”

At the first practice session, we get to size up each team member, and hope springs eternal that there will be at least a couple of standout players.

Last year, for the first time, there was an African-American kid on my son’s team. My immediate thought was, “All right! Maybe we’ll have a chance now!”

Well, it turned out that this kid was by far the worst player on the team. How bad was he? I barely know anything about basketball, and it was even obvious to me that this kid was terrible.

I was confused. Just because this kid was black, I expected him to be a great basketball player, and then when it turned out he wasn’t, I just couldn’t comprehend it. What a rip-off!

On top of that, the best player on the team was actually a skinny, short Asian kid. I was dumbfounded. “Wait a minute—The black kid is the worst player and the little Asian kid is the best player? What the hell is going on here?”

Then I began asking myself, why would I automatically assume that a black kid would be good at basketball?

What if I was black and had no interest in basketball? Would people always want to talk basketball with me, and then be disappointed when they found out I had no interest in the game at all?

Or what if I was an Asian kid and really loved basketball? Would everyone just ridicule me because there aren’t many Asian basketball players and I should really be focusing on math?

Or what if I was Jewish? Would gentiles always ask me about Mideast politics, or the meaning of certain Jewish holidays, figuring that I’m expected to know everything about them just because they’re Jewish topics?

Wait a minute…I am Jewish and gentiles do ask me that stuff!

Do their questions make them racist? Do my assumptions about the basketball players make me a racist? You be the judge.

Sayonara and Shalom.

IT GETS WORSE

2011-01-08T13:52:00.000-08:00

Not to start off the New Year on a negative note or anything (why, I would never do that!), but today I am here to tell you something that nobody else will: The Truth About Having Kids.

And here it is: Enjoy your children while they’re young, because by the time they hit 12, it’s over baby.

What’s over, exactly? Let’s see…

Their wide-eyed innocence. Kissing you good night, or just kissing or hugging you for no reason at all. Talking to you excitedly about their friends and what happened that day. Looking to you for protection and guidance.

And what can you expect when your child enters the “tween” stage?

To them, everything is lame and sucks, especially YOU. You are now an embarrassment who says and does everything wrong. If you’re lucky, your children will treat your every action and utterance with either massive eye-rolling or the silent treatment, or both.

When they were little, you only had to worry about your children simply being healthy and safe, and you could pretty much control that.

Now, you have to be concerned about some serious stuff: safe sex; who your children pick as friends and as girlfriends/boyfriends; grades (which really count now); the cost of college; driving; car insurance; too much TV; too much Internet; too much texting; too much video gaming.

And speaking of media, you will no longer have any use for Yo Gabba Gabba, or Barney, or The Wiggles, or Bob the Builder. That stuff probably drives you up the wall now, but one day you’ll find yourself longing for the days when your kids watched it over and over again. It was pure and sweet and harmless.

Once they become tweens, they will become attracted to R-rated movies, videos and music. And even if you don’t let inappropriate media in the house, your children will find it or get exposed to it one way or another.

Remember how you would sometimes catch your little ones doing something wrong? When you caught them, they looked so guilty and their tears would come flowing.

Well, when they get older, you hear about their misdeeds second-hand—from their friends, from other parents, or maybe even from school officials.

Any semblance of control you thought you once had is now gone. If you don’t believe me, take a good look at those groups of 12- to 17-year-old boys and girls the next time you’re at the mall or a fast-food joint. That is what your little baby will become, and there is nothing you can do about it! If that doesn’t scare the shit out of you, you’re still getting high on the fumes of Baby Wipes.

Then the day finally comes when you hear that your precious little angel is saying (or texting) the F-word. And that’s when you know it’s really over. Your bundle of joy has turned into just another a-hole…just like you were at that age.

So, enjoy your little ones while you can, but now you know the truth about having kids.

Come to think of it, no one ever tells you The Truth About Being Married, either, but that’s a topic for another day. Here’s a hint, though: look at the title of this blog posting.

Oh, and Happy New Year!

MY FAVORITE QUOTES OF THE YEAR

2011-01-02T16:22:00.000-08:00

Between Jerry K Jr. and me, as I was walking out the door:
Me: I’ll be back in 15 minutes. I need to get some gas.
Jerry K Jr.: Why?

This one occurred when Jerry K Jr. was getting ready to go to bed. Please understand that the only ones in the room were our dog, him and myself.
Me: Did you brush your teeth?
Jerry K Jr.: Who, me?

During a school field trip last year, a male student returned from the restroom with his zipper down.
Female teacher: Andrew, your fly is down.
Andrew: Why do you have to look down there, Miss?

Mrs. Jerry K to Jerry K Jr., while he was being particularly annoying at 6:00 am:
“Why do you have to do everything I hate?”

I saw a dad with his small son at Costco. The boy was dangling his leg out of the shopping cart. Exasperated, the dad smacked the boy’s leg, and said:
“I’m going to have to spank you, because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

MY NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS

2011-01-02T16:11:00.000-08:00

• No more high-fiving of any kind. I actually saw two women high-five each other because they both got their periods on the same day. Kind of takes away the whole meaning of the high-five, don’t you think?

• Eat more Nutella.

• Determine once and for all if Ricky Martin and Elton John are gay.

• Perfect Aunt Flossie’s kasha recipe.

• Stop going to Best Buy, rearranging the DVDs, and then complaining to the manager that they are disorganized.

• Try to understand why receptionists at spas and massage parlors are always so tense.

• Avoid using the phrase, “There you go.”

• Transition from having fun only with chicken parts to having fun with the entire chicken.

• More licking.

“DOES YOUR WIFE READ YOUR BLOG?”

2010-12-16T17:27:00.000-08:00

Here at the lavish Fun with Chickens headquarters, I get thousands of emails every day asking the same question: “Does your wife read your blog?”

The answer, simply, is no.

Since I began this blog back in the early ‘70s, we both somehow knew immediately that it would not be a good idea if she read it.

This instinctive agreement is difficult to explain, but maybe this little anecdote will shed some light.

This morning at breakfast, Mrs. Jerry K mentioned that she really likes the song, “Billionaire.”

I explained how much I hated that song. “I even wrote about it in my blog. He says he wants to be a billionaire, and my reaction is, well, who wouldn’t?”

A contemptuous look was aimed at yours truly…so of course I wisely continued.

“Then he says he wants to meet Oprah. Right! What are they gonna talk about—dieting? Their love of Maya Angelou’s poetry?”

Contempt then turned to disgust, as she said, “THAT’S what you write about in your blog?”

…And THAT, dear friends, is why it's best if my wife doesn’t read my blog.

THE DECEPTIVE LURE OF BEING HOMELESS

2010-12-16T17:17:00.000-08:00

I know this makes little sense, but I often envy homeless people.

Many was the time I would see them sleeping peacefully under a freeway overpass, and admire how little they had to worry about.

No worries about paying the mortgage, or having the latest smart phone. No getting pissed off every time the cable TV bill arrives, and pondering for the billionth time whether you should be spending so much money on so many channels.

No frustration over the latest car repair bill or car insurance payment. No wondering how you will afford the latest clothes or electronic gadget your kid is coveting.

Some people even pay a monthly fee for a storage unit to house all the useless junk that they never use.

Of course, I could go on and on.

What a blissful life the homeless must have, I tell myself, freed from all these superficial burdens.

They can just go from place to place, no strings attached, and sleep under the stars. They aren’t tied down, working the same routine day after day and kissing the boss’ ass just to keep everyone happy and struggle to maintain a lifestyle.

The homeless must look at us and think we’re suckers.

But then I take a closer look, and realize that most of these homeless guys actually do have material possessions.

They are usually pushing around a rusty, rickety shopping cart that’s like their own personal storage unit. I’m not sure what exactly they have in those carts, but there must be some pretty useful items if they want to remain tied down to it.

Where is the freedom from material possessions that I was so romantically envying whenever I saw these people? Could it be that they are actually enslaved to this crap just like the rest of it, but on a more, shall we say modest, level?

I remember I once even saw two homeless ladies in a McDonald’s both pushing their shopping carts and greedily eyeing each other’s stuff while guarding their own carts.

So not only are they tied down to this junk just like we are, they also have to worry about it being stolen, just like we do.

So I guess even if we want a simple life free of monthly bills, a numbing routine, and all the crushing consumerism, there is some need within us, regardless of income, that makes us end up with obtaining, and being enslaved by, material possessions.

Sigh. Homelessness isn’t the answer after all. There really is no escape.

A JET SKI? I DON’T GET IT

2010-11-28T16:13:00.000-08:00

Every summer, my family spends a week at a lake that is filled with boaters, swimmers, water-skiers, and jet skiers.

(The water itself is a greenish brew of fish crap, duck poop, swimmers’ pee, and oil from the aforementioned boats, but that’s another story.)

On the first morning, I awake at 8 a.m. At that time, civilized people should be doing one of three things:
1. Sleeping
2. Having coffee and reading the morning newspaper
3. Exercising (walking or running)

But as I look out from the deck of our lakefront rental, I actually see people riding their jet skis at 8 a.m.!

I find this utterly confusing.

What exactly is this compulsion to get up so early and feel the need to jet ski? Is it really so fascinating that you just can’t wait to get up on that thing and zip around the lake?

Actually, I don’t understand the whole jet ski thing at all.

It’s not like your jet ski is taking you on some sort of adventure. You are not going to unexpectedly encounter some beautiful waterfalls or wildlife.

It’s a lake. You are basically riding in a circle. A lake is pretty enough, but one end of it looks just like the other.

Then again, all these kinds of activities hit me the same way. I will usually try anything once. I’ve rented a jet ski and I’ve rented a boat. But after you experience jet skiing or boating one time, what is the point of doing it again?

Sure, going on a jet ski is fun, but once I’ve tried it, what will I gain from doing it again? Is the second or third time on a jet ski going to be that much different from the first? Will it be more fun? No, it will be exactly the same experience.

What I find completely baffling is that some people will actually buy their own jet ski and drag it up to a lake every chance they get. Of course, that also involves getting a trailer for the jet ski, along with a vehicle capable of towing everything.

And then when you are home, you have to store all this stuff somewhere. Is it some sort of status thing to proudly display this bitchen jet ski in your driveway?

All I know is that sure is a lot of expense and effort for doing something that is really the same thing every time you do it.

Here’s a thought: Instead of spending money on the exact same activity, why not do something different each vacation? Maybe a little hiking at a national park, or exploring a new city?

But a jet ski? Come on!

ONLINE SHORTHAND FOR THOSE OF THE JEWISH PERSUASION

2010-11-28T14:28:00.000-08:00

OMG=Oh My Goy

LOL=Lox on Latkes

WTF=Who’s The Faigeleh?

WTK=Where’s The Kasha?

IMHO=In My Hebrew Opinion

ROTFL=Rye On Toast Filled with Lox

LMAO=Lox on Matzo And Onions

IDK=I’m Davening over your Kugel

SAZ=Such A Zetz

IGSN=I’ve Got Such Naches

MT=Mazel Tov

MTPPP=Mazel Tov Poi Poi Poi

And of course…

TKCFTHG=The Kindala Can’t Find The Hanukah Gelt

BUSH & OPRAH: THE UNAIRED TRANSCRIPT

2010-11-21T15:42:00.000-08:00

Oprah: Some of you may be familiar with our guest today. He was the President of the United States who will be fondly remembered for dismantling the previous eight years of American prosperity. Please welcome former President George W. Bush!

(A smattering of polite applause from robotic housewives.)

Bush: Thank you, Okra.

Oprah: Now, I understand you have a new book out, Mr. President, entitled, “Decision Points,” but that was not the original title.

Bush: That’s correct. I wanted to call the book, “I’m The Decider Because I’m The One Who Decided,” and the publisher said he loved it, but that it just wouldn’t fit on the cover. I looked into his eyes and saw his heart, along with a couple of other organs, and concluded that he was being honest with me, so we went with “Decision Points.”

Oprah: I pretended to read your book for the purposes of this interview. Could you discuss one of your earliest childhood memories that helped forge your warped view of the world?

Bush: Well, I’ll never forget the day when my mother—

Oprah: That’s the scary one who looks like a man, right, Mr. President?

Bush: Yes, that’s right. She is one feisty lady. I’ll never forget the time she showed me a jar containing her miscarried fetus. I believe I named it "Fetus."

Oprah: And was that an “aha moment” for you?

Bush: Absolutely. It was then that I decided—because I am the Decider, after all—that I would do everything in my power to prevent all women from having abortions so that I would never again accidentally see a fetus in a jar.

Oprah: Mr. President, while my make-up crew was shellacking my face for five hours before we went on the air, I overheard one of them say that you never foresaw the impeding financial meltdown.

Bush: That is true, Oatmeal. But on the other hand, I am proud to say that during my presidency, I had some extraordinary vacations and became an authority on the Craftsman 42cc 18" Gas Chain Saw. Let me tell you, that’s a fine American product.

Oprah: Last night I was laying on the bed in my pajamas and eating some cashews, which I still feel guilty about, and I overheard one of my Filipino concubines mention that you flew over Louisiana in Air Force One instead of landing to see first-hand the devastation left by Hurricane Katrina.

Bush: Yes, that did not look good, I admit. But you must understand, Upchuck, there were a lot of really angry black people down there, and they were especially pissed off at me. But on the other hand, one of my staff members recently told me that our current President is black, and I think that’s fantastic.

Oprah: I hear you, girlfriend! Woooo! Now, I was speaking to Maya Angelou and Deepak Chopra earlier today, and Deepak mentioned that you said one of the lowest points of your presidency was when Kanye West said that you don’t like black people.

Bush: Well, your friend Deepdish is correct, because, unlike most people in Texas, I am not a racist. In fact, I have been shit-faced drunk with the blacks many times.

Oprah: But Mr. President, wouldn’t you agree that a lower point would be the fact that many American soldiers lost their lives in a war that we had no business starting? A war that was justified based on faulty, cherry-picked intelligence, and which has cost America billions of dollars?

Bush: All I can say is that racist remark really hurt my feelings, and since I am the Decider, that was the low point.

Oprah: Thank you for joining us, Mr. President, and I think I speak for everybody when I say thank God you can’t run for a third term and completely fuck us over.

Bush: Thank you for those kind words, Opie.

DON'T EAT THIS OR THAT!

2010-11-06T20:42:00.000-07:00

Here is the definitive list of foods with names featuring two words that should never go together, and that you should therefore never eat.

They also make great pet names for your spouse, lover, or otherwise significant other-person.

Eggplant
(I’m not technically a botanist, but I still don’t think eggs come from plants.)

Carrot Cake
(Why would I want something healthy ruining a perfectly good piece of cake?)

Cheese Cake
(Cheese on a sandwich? Sounds delicious. On my pizza? Bring it! In a cake? I don’t think so.)

Steak Tartar
(Isn’t tartar that stuff the dentist scrapes off your teeth? Hey, let’s put some on our ribeye!)

Butt Roast
(Just think of your butt, and all that entails, and then eat it.)

Butt Roast, Bone In
(No comment.)

Chicken Nuggets
(Nugget-anything is never a good sign.)

Chicken Tenders
(How did they get that tender? I don’t want to know. Good stripper name, though.)

Meat Loaf
(Sounds too casual.)

Meat Balls
(Yeah, let’s grind up this dead flesh and form it into balls!)

Melon Balls
(If I were a melon, I’d object to being forced into this unnatural shape.)

Baby Back Ribs
(Jeffrey Dahmer’s favorite meal.)

Tater Tots
(See above.)

Chocolate Mousse
(Don’t people put mousse in their hair?)

NEVER LET MY MOTHER MAKE YOU A SANDWICH

2010-10-24T18:09:00.000-07:00

Are you hungry, tatela? I can make you a sandwich.

OK, sure.

What would you like? I have salami, ham, and turkey.

Turkey would be fine.

Or if you want, you can have all three together.

No, just turkey is OK.

Or I can put two together. You can have just salami and turkey, or salami and ham, or ham and turkey if you like.

Nah, turkey alone is fine.

Are you sure?

Yeah.

OK. Let’s see. I have oven roasted turkey and low sodium turkey. Which would you like?

Just regular oven roasted turkey is fine.

What kind of bread would you like?

What do you have?

I think I only have wheat bread.

Well, then I guess I’ll have wheat.

I did have some rye bread, but I think your brother ate it all.

It’s all right, we can go with the wheat.

I might have a bagel in the freezer. Do you want me to look?

No, wheat bread is fine.

It’s really no trouble.

No, wheat will be fine.

OK, suit yourself. Do you want anything on it? I have mustard and mayonnaise.

I’ll take some mustard.

I have Grey Poupon and French’s.

French’s is good.

Are you sure? The Grey Poupon is very good.

No thanks, I just like boring old yellow mustard.

Suit yourself, tateleh. But it would be nice if you tried something different once in a while. That was the problem I had with all you kids growing up. That’s why it was impossible to feed you.

Yeah, I know.

Do you want a lot of mustard, or just a little?

Just a little, spread evenly, would be great.

You got it. You said you wanted turkey, right?

Right.

Would you like some cheese?

Sure.

What kind of cheese would you like?

Well, what do you have?

I have Swiss, American, and Cheddar.

I’ll have American.

You want American cheese on a turkey sandwich? Feh! Are you sure?

Yeah, I’m sure.

OK, it’s your sandwich. American it is. How many slices would you like?

Two is good.

OK, two. Do you want the cheese first, or the turkey first?

Surprise me.

Well, you need to tell me, because I prefer the turkey first but you may not like it that way.

Turkey first is fine.

OK, how many slices of turkey did you want?

I dunno. Three, I guess.

OK. Wheat bread, three slices of turkey, two slices of American—you’re sure you want American cheese?

Yes.

All right. Would you like some lettuce?

That would be great.

I also have some feckockteh alfalfa sprouts that your crazy sister left here.

No thanks. Lettuce is good.

OK, there we are. Would you like the crusts cut off? You always liked the crusts cut off when you were a little boy.

Mom, I’m 54.

Oy, don’t remind me. So, leave the crusts on?

Yes, please.

All right. Would you like me to cut it?

Yeah.

Would you like it cut in diagonally, or just in half?

Cut in half is fine.

OK, here you go, tateleh. Would you like something to drink, or some chips with that?

(Since the headline of this post mentioned only the sandwich, I will spare you the complexities of getting chips and a drink, but I think you can guess what happened.)

"GUESS THAT SMELL!"

2010-10-17T15:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, folks, it’s time once again to play America’s favorite game show, “GUESS THAT SMELL!”

We come to you this week from the bedroom of Jerry K. Junior, a typical 12-year-old boy. There has been a rather troubling odor suffocating visitors and permeating his room for about two days. The cause of this odor remains a mystery. However, our panel of experts has narrowed the source down to two possibilities.

And that brings us to our two contestants. Let’s meet CONTESTANT #1:

Name: Skittles
Species: Hamster
Country of Origin: Hamsterville, USA
Turn-ons: Running pointlessly on a wheel, jamming food in his cheeks, burrowing.
Evidence: Skittles is three years old, which for a hamster means the great guinea pig in the sky has a HabitTrail reserved just for him. Lately, he has been listless, constipated, and distant. But…does he smell?

Or perhaps the pungent perfume is coming from CONTESTANT #2:

Name: Molly
Alias: Princess Paws
Species: Golden Retriever
Turn-ons: Eating, pooping, eating poop.
Evidence: Being a teenager in dog years, lately Molly has been almost as annoying as “The View." She is also pissed off at Jerry K. Junior, who relentlessly taunts her and photographs her in humiliating poses. But…does she smell?

Log in your answers now. We will return after a word from our only sponsor, Febreeze.

Welcome back. And this week’s smell was coming from:

MOLLY!

That’s right. To get back at her owner’s ridicule, Molly left a poop pretzel on the bedroom floor. Once Jerry K. Junior realized that dog doody is actually quite larger than hamster doody, the answer was obvious.

Tune in next week when we ask you to GUESS THAT SMELL!—dirty gym clothes, or last week’s uneaten turkey sandwich still sitting in a school backpack?

Until then, stay stinky!

MUSIC IS DEAD ON SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE

2010-10-12T18:58:00.000-07:00

Here’s just a partial list of rock musicians who appeared during the golden age of Saturday Night Live: Eric Clapton, David Bowie, Elvis Costello, Tom Petty, Jerry Garcia.

That's a pretty impressive list.

But that was then and this is now, so let’s take a look at which musicians have performed on the first three SNL shows of 2010: Katy Perry, Kanye West, and Bruno Mars.

Now that’s some cutting-edge stuff, wouldn’t you say?

Let’s begin with Katy Perry. Now this is not rock music by any stretch of the imagination, but that’s OK, because there’s always room for a little pop music.

But here’s the weird thing that is just bugging the crap out of me: She appears on SNL, which is such a quintessentially New York show. Everything about the show just oozes New York—the opening credits, the house band, the attitude. Even the musicians’ stage on SNL is a mini-version of Grand Central Station.

So, what does Katy sing? Her massive annoying hit, “California Gurls.” It’s tolerable as a piece of studio-produced pop confection on the radio, but performed live it’s just shallow and embarrassing, and the song was exposed for the piece of innocuous fluff that it is. What’s more, if she had any integrity, she should send half the profits from this song to Brian Wilson for ripping off his title.

But if it’s not bad enough that she’s singing such an mediocre song on SNL, at the end of the song, while she’s repeating, “California/California Gurls,” she finishes by yelling out “West Coast!” and triumphantly holding her fingers like a “W.”

Now why would she do that in front of a New York audience? Is she really so clueless that she expects that audience to enthusiastically cheer a shout-out to California? I don’t get it.

The next episode of SNL featured Kanye West. For his number, the stage was transformed into an all-white background with a bunch of attractive ladies vacantly swirling around him.

I would comment on his lyrics, except for the fact that I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL HE WAS SAYING. That’s right, “saying,” because Kanye doesn’t really sing, he just kind of talks.

Just last week, SNL featured Bruno Mars. He performed his (pop) hit, “Grenade.” Now take a look at these lyrics:

I’d take a grenade for ya,
Put my head on a blade for ya,
Jump in front of a train for ya,
I would die for ya,
But you won’t do the same.

So here’s my question: DO YOU KNOW ANY GUY WHO THINKS LIKE THAT? Am I missing something here, or should Bruno call a suicide hotline pronto? And I love the fact that the girl won’t do the same for him. She’s no idiot.

The funny part is that he seems so disappointed and hurt that the girl won’t take a grenade for him. By the way, where is Bruno getting these grenades? Oh, I guess it rhymes with blade and train, so that makes sense.

He was also sporting a bright blue suit and a skinny black tie. That’s the same thing I wore to my sixth grade graduation in 1967. As I watched this performance, I thought, “Hey, that’s my suit! I thought they burned all of those!”

…Not to digress or anything, but while we’re on the subject, here’s another song that drives me crazy: “Billionaire” by Travie McCoy. Here are some (annotated) lyrics for your enjoyment:

I want to be a billionaire,
So freakin’ bad…

(Um, who doesn’t?)

Every time I close my eyes,
I see my name in flashing lights,
A different city every night.

(Every night? That sounds like a real pain in the ass.)

I want to be on the cover of
Forbes magazine,
Hanging out with Oprah and the Queen.

(And what are you and Oprah going to talk about, exactly? Dieting? Her love of Maya Angelou?)

Well, this is what happens when you become an old fart and are forced to listen to Top 40 radio with your 12-year-old son.

Back to SNL: They have aired only three shows so far this year, so all hope is not lost. But once they book Justin Bieber, I’m outta here.

AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH YOKO ONO

2010-10-10T16:53:00.000-07:00

The world’s most famous widow, Yoko Ono, recently met with us in our Fun With Chickens penthouse offices, and sat down for a rare, and shockingly honest, interview
.
The failed artist appeared in concert the night before with the latest edition of her Plastic Bozo Band.

This time around, the band’s headliners included the attention-starved Lady GagMe, along with Perry Farrell, who once led a band that never had a hit and that no one remembers.

Rounding out the group were Sean Lennon and Harper Simon, two talentless musicians who are only allowed to stand on stage because they have famous songwriter fathers.

Fun With Chickens: Yoko, thank you for taking the time to speak with us.

Yoko: Well, John was a big fan of your blog, so he would have wanted this.

FWC: I see. I first wanted to ask what your name means in your native language.

Yoko: My name translates as “Screeching Harpy” in Japanese, but in Tagalong it means “Gold digger.”

FWC: Yoko, is it true that you did not know who John Lennon was when you first met him?

Yoko: That is true, I had never heard of the Beatles at that time.

FWC: I find that very difficult to believe, considering they were world famous. Tell me, do you recognize any of these people? (We held up photos of Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, and Adolph Hitler.)

Yoko: No. They are not the Three Stooges that John loved so much, are they?

FWC: Wow. I really find your inability to identify people who had such a worldwide impact quite perplexing. Let me show you just one more picture. (We held up a portrait of Jesus Christ.)

Yoko: No, I am sorry. Would he happen to be a rich, famous musician who travels without security, and can be easily approached by a deranged stalker who has three names? Because if he is, I would love to meet him. I am down to my last $50 million of John’s money, and I know Sean won’t make jackshit with his crappy albums.

FWC: Well, I certainly am surprised by your honesty.

Yoko: But you see, Fun With Chickens, art is all about truth.

FWC: So Yoko, what are your plans for the future? Do you hope to break up any other famous bands and further deprive the world of some amazing music?

Yoko: Once you have broken up The Beatles, there is really nowhere else to go. You see, John would have been 70 years old this year if he had lived, and so to celebrate the spirit of John’s life, and to honor his contribution to society, I hope to profit off the reissues of every solo album he recorded. They are currently available at your local Wal-Mart and Best Buy stores.

FWC: Unfortunately, Yoko, we do not allow any plugs on Fun With Chickens. But we do appreciate your stopping by and chatting with us.

Yoko: Thank you. By the way, Paul died many years before John, and—for the record--I would just like people to know that I had barely anything to do with his death. Or George’s. Or Ringo’s.

FWC: Thank you for clearing that up. Yoko, because you are so artistic and mystical and wise, is there any message you would like to leave with us?

Yoko: I just want to spread love and peace to chickens all over the world, because if chickens can come together as one, there is nothing we humanoids cannot accomplish. And if you call our toll-free number, 1-800-YOKO-BLOWS, you can order a boxed set of all of John’s solo records and I will personally stamp my autograph on each box with special ink from the blood of angels. The cost is only $599, and I know John would have wanted it that way.

CHRISTINE O’DONNELL: DID SHE OR DIDN’T SHE SAY IT?

2010-09-29T14:47:00.000-07:00

After she surprisingly won the Republican senate primary in Delaware, several quotes from Christine O’Donnell have surfaced. They have amused some and outraged others, but most people agree that she definitely reflects the intelligence of Tea Party members.

Here are some real quotes from O’Donnell, along with some that we have programmed through our Fun With Chickens joke processor.

Can you tell: Did she or didn’t she say this?

A. "We took the Bible and prayer out of public schools. Now we're having weekly shootings. We had the 60s sexual revolution, and now people are dying of AIDS."

B. “The economy is like a baby’s tummy. If you rub it long enough and burp it, it will release gas and feel better.”

C. “It’s time we take America back, get the government off our backs, and end the wholesale massacre of chickens not just on Earth, but worldwide.”

D. "I dabbled into witchcraft. I never joined a coven." / "One of my first dates with a witch was on a satanic altar."

E. “It is true that many religious leaders believe that God created Hurricane Katrina because He was upset that Sanjaya didn’t win “American Idol.”

F. "American scientific companies are cross-breeding humans and animals and coming up with mice with fully functioning human brains."

G. “In some cultures, women are still allowed to look men directly in the eye when they speak to them. As your senator, I will work hard to change that.”

H. "You know what, evolution is a myth." / "Why aren't monkeys still evolving into humans?"

I. “I once had a Shiatsu that looked just like my Uncle Fleebus. But that doesn’t mean evolution is a factual thing.”

J. “I believe the death penalty should only be applied to people who are really gnarly.”

K. “I and many others do not believe in the myth of global warming. How can this be possible when just yesterday my nana said the house was chilly?”

L. "During the primary, I heard the audible voice of God. He said, 'Credibility.'"

M. “If we allow gay people the freedom to marry each other, it won’t be long before we grant the same rights to unhappy people as well.”

ANSWERS
True statements: A, D, F, H, L
Almost true statements: All the rest.

DID YOU KNOW…?

2010-09-28T18:53:00.000-07:00

• In a new study released by the Phew Research Group, a majority of scientists have determined that, as a result of consuming genetically altered food and being submitted to X-ray airport security scanners, by the year 2050 seventy percent of the population will have doody that glows in the dark.

• You can tell when a three-day weekend is coming: All the gentiles are hosing off their RVs.

• Approximately one-half of all radio commercials begin with the phrase, “Did you know…” (Example: “Did you know that you can pay as little as ten dollars a month for your chicken insurance?”)

• If you are ever in a meeting and placed in a small group, given a giant Post-It notepad and a marker, and asked to brainstorm and then either "share out" or do a "gallery walk," you should immediately excuse yourself to the restroom, leave the country, and never return. You will be better off in the long run.

• The general population is just now realizing that most plastic surgeons suffer from an abnormal sexual attraction to ducks. When asked to comment on this, comedian Joan Rivers replied, "Quack?"

"Real Housewives of New Jersey" faux celebrity and fellow duck lookalike Danielle Staub was so startled by this news that her eyebrows became permanently, and disturbingly, arched. Observe:

Now there's an attractive, natural look. It looks like she's gonna swoop down and peck you to death any minute.

But on an optimistic side note, while the plastic surgeons charged thousands of dollars to distort the faces of these and many other male and female celebrities, their ill-gotten incomes trickle down to the poor people in society, enabling them to purchase iPods, Auto Sucks, and other entertaining electronic devices while blissfully forgetting that they are still economically screwed. And then everybody was happy again.

So let's give a big Fun With Chickens thank-you cluck to all those plastic surgeons who prey on the insecurity of people and have no aesthetic sensibilities at all. All together now: "Paycock!"

THE GIRL AT SILVER SPOON

2010-09-24T15:44:00.000-07:00

I’ve come to the conclusion that, at 54, I can no longer compliment a young girl on her good looks without looking like a complete creep.

Here’s how I came to this epiphany.

Every Wednesday, I pick up frozen yogurt at a place I will call Silver Spoon (that way you won’t know that it’s really Golden Spoon). Wednesday is the key day to go, you see, because that is—ta da!—Double-Stamp Wednesday. Customers actually get two stamps on their Silver Spoon card for every frozen yogurt they purchase, and then a free frozen yogurt for every 10 stamps they acquire. So, it only makes sense to visit Silver Spoon on Wednesday.

This, folks, is what my life has become.

Anyway, strapping young boys and petite bouncy girls work at the place, alongside the requisite Top 40 blasting away and the college fund tip jar. The girls are usually fairly cute and perky, and the boys—well, who gives a shit about them.

But the new girl scooping up the delicious dessert is like a young Meg Ryan, long before Meg’s face starting melting and morphing into something unfilmable.

This young girl’s face is just so perfect that as I stand in line I can’t seem to stop staring at her, hoping to God that she doesn’t notice. She doesn’t. Then I wonder why it’s just me; doesn’t everyone in this store realize how obviously beautiful she is? I guess they don’t.

Now please understand that this isn’t even a purely sexual thing I am talking about. I’m not trying to hide a boner or anything. It’s more like admiring a work of art, or being hypnotized by some ethereal unearthly being, minus the anal probe.

So, as I stand in line waiting for my turn, I begin to vary my ogling and decide that I need to look for some sort of flaw on her, because no one could have such perfect looks. And sure enough, there it was: a little red mark on the back of her neck. (That’s right, her blond hair was in a cute little bun, allowing for full back-of-neck viewing.) Yet, even this imperfect little dot was part of her perfection, sort of like a mistake you can see in your favorite movie or hear in your favorite song that makes it even more endearing.

My turn at the counter is coming up, and it looks like she, not the other average-looking girl, will be waiting on me. Then I begin wondering if there is something I can say to her just to compliment her on her beauty.

I know what you’re thinking, so let me make this perfectly clear. I’m not trying to come up with a pick-up line. I’m not trying to “get” anything out of it. Rather, it’s similar to running into one of your favorite writers, actors, musicians, etc., and telling him that you really enjoy his work. The problem in this situation, though, is that I’m a 50-something guy and she’s this young girl and I will just come off as some sort of creep or pervert or Republican.

Which brings me back to my original point. You see, if a young guy around her age asked her, “Have you ever thought about being a model?” it would be OK because they are both in the same age bracket, and that’s how the young-uns meet each other, or so I’m told. At the other extreme, if some old coot said that to the young chippy, he would be an adorable harmless old man. But a guy in his fifties? That’s a no-win situation that could end up with either a smack in the face or a spot on the Megan’s Law website.

Still, with that damned hope springing eternally, I ask myself if I could actually pull this off. But at that point, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall, and that’s when reality rings my metaphorical doorbell. It’s all there: the glasses, the paunch, the kinky Jewish hair, the Lee jeans, the bloodshot eyes, the $10 Target sweatshirt. Nah, I don’t think so.

So I finally make it to the counter and mumble my orders for Mrs. Jerry K and Jerry K Jr., and then my own. Except that she gets my order wrong. Of course, I don’t correct her, and just take it as it is.

But the next day I think, wait a minute, that’s just the thing. This beautiful creature will always get what she wants in life, she’ll always end up on top, even if she screws up a frozen yogurt order, or a college essay, or a major business deal, or the first mission to Mars. Because of her impeccable looks, she will never have to struggle or prove herself.

And then I begin to reflect on my own life. The countless hours working in various offices—did they really matter? The receding hairline, liver spots, and other signs of aging. My little baby boy is suddenly 12 years old. People I know are looking incredibly old, or dying in car crashes or from a fatal illness. A website tells me at what age I will die. The years seem to be flying by at supersonic speed, and I see people half my age already accomplishing more than I ever have, and there is nothing I can do to control any of this.

And then I think back to that girl at Silver Spoon, and I realize: You know what? On second thought, to hell with that bitch.

THE WHO’S SET LIST FOR SUPER BOWL 2020

2010-02-08T17:24:00.000-08:00

Based on their triumphant performance at this year's Super Bowl, rock ‘n’ roll band The Who are already booked to perform during half-time at the Super Bowl in 2020.

Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend, who will be well into their ‘70s at that time, have announced their set list for the event:

“(Talkin’ About) My Medication”
“Tommy, I Can’t Hear You”
“Shuffleboard Wizard”
“Feed Me, Wheel Me”
“The Acid Reflux Queen”
“Magic Truss”
“Who Am I?”

THE HAIR FLUFFER

2010-01-24T17:08:00.000-08:00

Television is such a tightly controlled medium, it’s become more and more difficult for viewers to actually encounter anything real.

Even so-called “reality television” is edited for maximum entertainment value, and it’s often difficult to watch these shows, whether it was “Survivor” or “Jersey Shore” or whatever, without half your brain wondering what was edited out and what the reality of each situation really was.

I think many people are really starving for something REAL to show up on television, something that’s not scripted and edited to death.

That’s why Conan O’Brien’s final “Tonight Show” ratings went through the roof; viewers thought they may actually see something real and honest and unpredictable.

That’s also why my favorite TV moment of last year occurred during the 2009 “New Year’s Rockin’ Eve” live special.

As the countdown was being eagerly anticipated, uber-host Ryan Seacrest was on stage in Times Square along with Jennifer Lopez and some other entertainers whose names escape me. Could have been John Mayer or Lady Gaga or Ke$hsa or someone of equally awesome talent.

Anyway, my favorite moment came when these folks were on camera one minute, and then another camera cut away to the Times Square crowd. When they abruptly cut back to Seacrest, J-Lo, et al, an unidentified man was busily fluffing J-Lo’s hair. J-Lo suddenly noticed she was back on camera, and shooed away her hair fluffer, while giving an embarrassed look that said, “Oh, why is that silly guy fluffing my hair again? Well, what are you gonna do?” And the fluffer scurried off the screen.

Obviously, the hair fluffer was supposed to do this while she was off camera, and got caught because it was live TV and the camera can sometimes cut back and forth unpredictably.

Why was this my favorite moment? Several reasons:

• We actually saw something on TV that we weren’t supposed to see. How often does that happen?

• I loved J-Lo’s fake exasperated look, as if she is just a regular gal (you know, “Jenny from the Block”) and hasn’t had her hair fluffed a billion times before, whenever a spare second allows. How can you not love when hypocrisy is exposed? And God forbid she doesn’t look absolutely perfect at all times.

• Her hair looked great, and didn’t need fluffing, but the guy fluffed it anyway. Why?

But the main reason I loved this moment was because it made me think: This must be the most pathetic job in the world—stepping in at every spare moment to fluff up someone’s hair.

OK, maybe “pathetic” is the wrong word. Maybe it’s the most meaningless, vacuous, lame, superficial, sycophantic job in the world. It contributes nothing to society, doesn’t make the world a better place, or make any kind of difference in anyone’s life.

Is it possible that being a hair fluffer is the worst job in the world?

I know there are plenty of terrible jobs out there. All you have to do is watch “Dirty Jobs” for two seconds to realize that. But in reality, plenty of low-paid and blue-collar jobs provide valuable services that improve people’s lives or at least make someone’s day a little more enjoyable.

But as far as white-collar jobs go, stepping in to fluff someone’s hair must be one of the worst.

So next time you are dissatisfied with your occupation, and feel it’s insignificant and ineffectual, just say to yourself: “Well, at least I’m not a hair fluffer.”

IF GANDHI HAD BEEN JEWISH

2010-01-18T16:28:00.000-08:00

One of Mohandas Gandhi’s followers has interrupted his 30-day fast with a telephone call.

“Peace be with you. This is Mohandas Gandhi speaking.”

--“Moishe, this is your mother.”

“Yes, my dear mother. Please just call me Gandhi, as my many followers do.”

--“Oh, mister big shot with the followers already? Listen, Gandala, what is this I hear, you’re not eating?”

“That is correct, mother. I am fasting so that I may spread the message of peace throughout the world.”

--“What happened to the kasha I sent you?”

“As I said, I am fasting so that others will hear my message.”

--“Listen, Aunt Sadie said she saw you in some sort of diaper. Is there a problem with your petzel?”

“No, mother.”

--“Then what exactly is that shmatteh you are wearing?”

“It is called a dhoti, mother. I made it myself with a spinning wheel.”

--“Oh, a spinning wheel. I see. And for this your father and I sent you to law school? Do you at least remember that you are Jewish?”

“Yes I am aware of that, mother. However, I am also a Christian, a Muslim, and a Buddhist."

--“Oy, Gandala, it’s a shanda for the goyim! Listen, your brother Yussell will come around with the car. I’m fixing a nice brisket tonight and your Aunt Sadie has some of your cousin’s old clothes that I’m sure will fit you fine.”

AN INTERVIEW WITH “AMERICA’S IDLE” HOST SIMON FOWL

2010-01-18T14:36:00.000-08:00

Fun With Chickens recently sat down for tea and cynicism with Simon Fowl, host of the hit amateur reality unscripted karaoke show, “America’s Idle.”

Fowl stopped by the Fun With Chickens mega-studio/mini-mall/dumpster to discuss the upcoming debut of his identical new show, “The Egg Factor,” and to make us feel inadequate about our own income.

Fun With Chickens: The current season of “America’s Idle” began, as always, with a series of auditions. Don’t you feel that you are just humiliating illiterate inbred Southerners and clueless others who have no talent?

Simon Fowl: Absolutely not. We are simply exploiting crackers with bad teeth and terrible voices. It’s win-win-win: They get to ruin their lives on TV, the audience gets to feel superior, and I make $45 million a season. Thank you, America!

FWC: Do you feel the show will suffer now that resident drug addict and synapse impaired Paula Eggdul has left?

Fowl: I feel that viewers only suffered when they had to look at Posh Spice for two hours. She looked like a dehydrated stalk of celery with pubic hair. By the way, it’s witty insults like that that earned me $45 million a season. What a great country! Beats Australia, or wherever the hell I’m from.

FWC: Some critics contend that the winners and finalists of “America’s Idle” really haven’t made a significant impact on popular music.

Fowl: I have to disagree. Clay Aiken is second only to the Banana Splits in changing pop music forever, and Adam Lambert is the most exciting breakthrough since I last checked my bank statement. Do you have any idea how much interest one can make each month on $45 million? Excuse me while I light my vaporizer with a twenty.

FWC: I understand your next show, “The Egg Factor,” is almost exactly like “America’s Idle.”

Fowl: “The Egg Factor” will be a completely new format. This time, the contestants will be humiliated in different categories. Plus, I will make much more than $45 million a season. Ka-ching!

FWC: Yet, some of your other shows have been failures: “Cupid,” “American Inventor,” “Celebrity Duets”…

Fowl: It depends on your definition of “failure.” I prefer to think of them as visionary experiments that still earned me a shitload of money. Believe me, those V-neck tee shirts are not cheap. But it’s a good look, don’t you think?

FWC: Finally, on a serious note, what are your feelings about the tragic situation in Haiti right now?

Fowl: I recommend that the people of Haiti do two things. First, change the name of your country, and please try to leave the word “hate” out of it this time. It’s not doing you any favors.

Secondly, the Haitians may be fine people, but they shouldn’t be pursuing singing as a career. I spotted one young woman on the telly last night wailing among the rocks and debris that used to be her home, and I must be honest, she was a little pitchy. Fortunately, I will never be in that situation, because I make $45 million a season. Good night, America!

WHY THERE WILL NEVER BE A JEWISH ASTRONAUT

2010-01-10T15:53:00.000-08:00

“Hi, Mom? I have some big news for you. I’ve finally decided what I want to do with my life. I want to be an astronaut.”

--“An astronaut, tahkeh? What, there’s not enough room on this planet? It’s not good enough for my little pisher?”

“Mom, I’ve really given a lot of thought to this.”

--“Oh, so you’ve given a lot of thought to this, have you? You have to go galavanting around on some other planet like some meshugeneh?”

“You don’t understand, Mom, the universe is so vast…”

--“Listen, tatteleh. I’ve seen space and let me tell you, it’s no big megillah. It’s gornisht!”

“But who knows what’s waiting for us out there?”

--“Whoever they are, they’re probably a bunch of anti-semites.”

“I really feel that this is my destiny, Mom.”

--“So let me get this straight. You can’t make time to call your Aunt Louise, but you can find the time to go in space and make in your pants? Feh!”

“Hmm. I never thought about the defecation part…”

--“You know what, abi gezunt! That’s why you have a mother, to remind you about what’s important. Now go call your aunt. I have to go now; the ‘Wheel’ is on and a nice Jewish boy has won three times in a row.”

WHAT TO YELL IN A CROWDED RESTAURANT IF SOMEONE IS TRYING TO BREAK UP WITH YOU

2010-01-10T14:27:00.000-08:00

Note: These work best if you yell while standing up at the table and then storming out the door.

• Breaking up with a woman:
“I told you: I don’t date hermaphrodites!”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t be with someone who has a crush on Sean Hannity!”

•Breaking up with a goth girl:
“No, I will not go to the Taylor Swift concert with you!”
"You're on Team Edward? How about Team Eat Me?!"

•Breaking up with a dog:
“Yeah, well I least I don’t sniff my own feces!”
“Guess what: That bone I gave you last Christmas? Rubber!”
“Good luck on someday actually catching a squirrel!”

•Breaking up with a chicken:
“Just because you can only lay brown eggs, don’t get pissed at me!”
“Cluck off!”

CONGRESS DECLARES DEATH OF ENGLISH LANGUAGE AFTER BLACK-EYED PEAS NEW YEAR’S EVE PERFORMANCE

2010-01-01T16:20:00.000-08:00

WASHINGTON, January 1, 2010--As its first act of the new year, Congress has declared the English language officially dead.

The action was taken after viewing a performance by the Black-Eyed Peas during last night’s televised New Year’s Eve celebration.

Performing their schmega-hit, “Boom Boom Pow,” during ABC’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve telecast, the Peas’ performance capped an entire year of songs by various performers who systematically killed the English language throughout 2009.

“We don’t want to single out the Black-Eyed Peas, who seem like a wonderful group of illiterate capitalists,” said Congressman Morty Cluckinbeak (R-Zacky Farms). “This was simply the last straw after monitoring recordings by several top-selling artists of 2009.”

Cluckinbeak, who closely listened to several songs on his “magical phonograph machine,” was able to convince his fellow congressmen after reciting the lyrics to “Boom Boom Pow.”

“Please note that these were grown men singing, and they actually looked a little bored and embarrassed,” Cluckinbeak noted. “There is also a female singer named Fergie, and I believe the royal family should be quite ashamed.”

Cluckinbeak went on to recite the words of the chorus:

“Boom boom pow, got to get
Boom boom pow, got to get
Boom boom pow, got to get
Boom boom pow, got to get
Boom boom pow, now
Boom boom pow, now
Boom boom pow
Boom boom”

“My fellow congressmen, need I go further?” Clucksberg intoned. “Keep in mind that this moronic chorus is repeated exactly fifty times. If you do, however, require further proof that the English language is indeed dead, let me now address the verses of this aural abomination.”

The congressman then recited two verses of “Boom Boom Pow, thusly:

“I’m a beast when you turn me on
Into the future Cybertron
Harder, faster, better, stronger
Sexy ladies extra longer

Cause we got the beat that bounce
We got the beat that pound
We got the beat that 808
That the boom, boom in your town”

Realizing that this song, and many others that sound identical, sold millions of copies in 2009, the entire Congress went on record to state that the English language was officially dead, and further decreed that today’s music lacks imagination, depth, emotion, melody, decent lyrics, and is indeed “fucking awful.”

DICK CLARK’S 2010 ROCKIN’ NEW YEARS EVE COUNTDOWN

2010-01-01T11:30:00.000-08:00

10. Eennng
9. Eiiiign
8. Aayyyght
7. Hevvvvnn
6. Ixxxxgnx
5. Twelve
4. Orrrgn
3. Mpplxxtyneeh
2. Rama lama ding dong
1. Uuggghhhh

THINGS I HOPE TO FIGURE OUT IN 2010

2009-12-30T13:58:00.000-08:00

• Why do people wear face masks while using leaf blowers? The leaves and dirt are being blown away from them, and toward us as we walk by. We should be the ones wearing face masks.

• Why are receptionists at massage parlors always so tense? Shouldn’t they be mellow and relaxed in order to show how great their service is?

• Why would anyone rob a 99-Cents Only store? How much money could the register possibly have? Even if the store had a good day and sold 500 items, that would only be $500. Crack must be really good.

• Will this be the year when people will finally stop using the expressions, “Oh…my…god,” and “Hell-O!” and “I’m baaack!”?

PRESIDENTIAL STATE DINNER 2044

2009-12-30T13:55:00.000-08:00

Security problems continued to plague the White House staff during last week’s annual state dinner.

President Trig Palin and First Lady Suri Cruise were surprised when Levi Johnston, Jr., arrived unexpectedly as part of a reality show stunt. This led to the immediate outlawing of all reality shows by President Palin’s Department of Total Lameness.

Despite this minor setback, this year’s presidential dinner was considered a success.

The dinner’s theme was “Pretty Colors,” and the menu featured snickerdoodles, nutella, gum and Lunchables.

The guest of honor was retired Secretary of State Dakota Fanning. She introduced the evening’s entertainment, the cast of “Yo Gabba Gabba,” who were later awarded the Medal of Honor and the Ashton Kutcher Memorial Humor Prize.

The evening reached orgasm when a speech was given by the cryogenically frozen disembodied head of Dick Cheney, former vice president and current Fox News Network commentator.

REASONS TO NOT BE THANKFUL

2009-11-24T17:28:00.000-08:00

• One of Adam Lambert’s dancers stuck his face in the singer’s crotch during a performance on the American Music Awards.

• Adam Lambert was on the American Music Awards.

• “Mad Men” Season 3 ended.

• There is a nationwide shortage of Eggos, the delicious frozen waffle treat.

• Sarah Palin’s book is #1 on Amazon.com

• Law enforcement officials could sniff out a Canoga Park pot warehouse, but didn’t notice the sex compound in Philip Garrido’s backyard.

• L.A. teachers: 12% pay cut?

• This guy at work still has a Howard Dean and a John Kerry bumper sticker on his car—and it drives me crazy every time I see it.

• The older I get, the more often I fart.

• One day, chickens may no longer be fun.

THINGS WE CAN ALL AGREE ON (can’t we?)

2009-11-14T16:02:00.000-08:00

• When someone describes something as being “phenomenal,” it never really is. (A colleague once actually told me that the entertainment on her cruise ship was “phenomenal.” Uh, yeah.)

• Nobody over the age of 10 should ever use the phrases, “Sweet!” or “You rock!”

• At lease once during any meeting in any workplace, someone will say either (a) “Why reinvent the wheel?” or (b) “At the end of the day…”

• Hairdressers and barbers always have the worst hairdos and haircuts, just as people who work at cosmetic counters or beauty supply stores always have the worst makeup.

• We already know who will win “The Biggest Loser.” It will be the one who loses the most weight. (Oops, spoiler alert!)

• Approximately 75% of plays that win the Tony suck.

• Approximately 75% of books that win the Pulitzer Prize suck.

• Nobody—that’s right, nobody—looks good in a sleeveless shirt.*

(* This comment provided by Sleeve Makers Union, Local 17, 33/34.)

CHICKENS DON’T GET THE FLU

2009-10-25T16:12:00.000-07:00

Many scientists the world over, including France, have recently come to the realization that chickens never catch the flu.

This discovery, like all great discoveries such as America and frozen waffles, came about quite accidentally.

As most people of average intelligence know, the method for developing the flu vaccine is based on a 50-year-old method of injecting the flu virus into eggs.

The virus feeds on the egg whites, the eggshells are cracked, the virus is killed and the substance is purified. Many of you have already practiced this in your own home using the Heath Kit Lil’ Egg Flu Vaccine Maker.

So, if you are one of the hundreds of paranoids waiting in line for your flu shot this year, perhaps there is an easier, more holistic approach:

Be more chicken-like in your everyday life.

As explained by Cal State Dinuba scientist Messugah Chalaza, “The chicken egg is not upset when the flu virus is injected, and therefore chickens are immune. I therefore urge every man and woman to immediately renounce his or her homo sapienness and embrace their homo chickenness. Unfortunately, pygmies will get the flu no matter what. Now, where’s my pap? I want my pap!”

Local poultry rights activists are providing another reason to become familiar with your inner chicken. They believe that injecting a flu virus into an innocent egg is murder, and that the vaccine should instead be tested on non-living things such as homeless people.

Thos who still wish to tap their inner chicken are advised to follow the teachings found in the recent best-selling book by Deepeck Cluckra, “The Way of the Chicken,” which outlines how humans can become more chicken-like.

The book’s main advice includes:

• Do not be ashamed of your pecker. Display it proudly at all times.

• Associate with more cocks on a daily basis.

• What you think may be a bowel movement could actually be an egg. As you are upon the bowl (or “porcelain nest”), repeat the mantra, “Round, white, round, white,” for at least an hour. Check carefully before you flush.

• Remember the basics:
1. Cluck on a daily basis, no matter how loud and sweaty you may get.
2. Flap your wings (or arms) erratically, not matter how futile and annoying it may be to others.
3. Avoid rotisseries.

THE TORTURE OF STARBUCKS

2009-10-11T17:35:00.000-07:00

You would think that ordering a cup of coffee would be easy. Mindless. Something a monkey could easily be trained to do.

Think again, my presupposing post-primate.

Today I visited my local Barnes and Noble. Following the lead of Mrs. Jerry K, instead of actually buying books and contributing to the local economy and supporting the authors, I begin a book in the bookstore, make a note of what page I stopped at, then continue at said page on my next visit.

Hey, what do you want from a guy who actually washes and reuses plastic forks?

So, I grab my book and head to the in-store Starbucks area. Now, as everyone knows, your penance for sitting in this most hallowed of areas is that you have to purchase something. Bastardos!

The area is usually filled with high school or community college students who gather there to work on homework. Except that 90 percent of the time, they are too busy talking to get any work done.

And that is why we need to immediately stop funding all educational institutions! Shut ‘em all down, I say! That's the only logical conclusion.

Anyway, I just want to buy the cheapest thing possible and read a book that I’m too cheap to buy.

Now, I considered embellishing this little exchange in order to make it—I don’t know—funny. But I swear on the life of my pet chicken that the following actually happened and that I am repeating it verbatim.

Can I have a small coffee, please? (I refuse to say dente or stupende or schmente or whatever made-up words they have up there on the menu.)

Would you like room for cream?

Yes.

Would you like to have anything from the display case?

I would, but I better not. (That’s me being friendly and reaching out to my fellow human beings. Usually results in blank stares.)

Would you like to also purchase your book?

No.

I’m sorry, did you say you wanted room for cream?

Yes.

There’s a fresh pot brewing. Would you like to wait for that?

Sure.

Do you have a Barnes and Noble membership card?

No.

Would you like to purchase one? It will save you ten percent off your purchase today.

No thanks. (Notice how polite I am?)

What is your name? I will call your name when it’s ready.

Jerry.

Did you say “Garry”?

No, JJJJJJJJJerry. (That’s a hard “J” sound, folks. Pretty common name, wouldn’t you say? Yet, you would be amazed at the questions I get. “Is that Jerry with a “J” or a “G”? “Is that J-e-r-r-y or J-e-r-r-i?”)

Now, I ask you: What about all those movies when a guy walks into a diner and asks for a cup of joe. It’s always such a simple transaction, and usually goes something like this:

A cup of coffee, please.

Comin’ right up.

That’s it! That’s all! Sometimes the counterperson says nothing at all. Instead, I get a freakin’ interrogation.

It’s enough to make you think that movies aren’t like real life.

THE YENTA CHICKEN

2009-09-07T19:48:00.000-07:00

Hi there once again all you clucks and cocks. This is Feathers Mendelbeak, your local Yenta Chicken, checking in with all the latest gossip around the old henhouse.

Item #1: Guess which white and unmarried hen recently surprised everyone in the coop when she popped out a brown egg? I won’t name names, but let’s just say she’s been known to spread her wings on several occasions…and it wasn’t to do any flying either!

Item #2: A certain cluckster has been leading a double life at night as an exotic dancer at a local barn. She goes by the name of “Chicken Tenders,” and rumor has it that she partakes in some kinky behavior for the right price.

Examples:
• For a pound of chicken feed, she is willing to dress up like she’s been barbequed.
• For two pounds of extra grade feed, she will allow the client to pluck her all night.
• She’s been known to swing both ways: chickens and roosters.

‘Nuff said for now.

Item #3: Yours truly recently attended the World Premiere of “Impecktuous Clucksters,” the latest opus by that bad boy of poultry cinema, Chirpy Beakatino.

Had a fabulous time dirt-bathing with some of the hottest scratchers on the big screen, and the movie itself was a hoot, offering an alternative history to one of the darkest eras in chicken history. Believe me, the Poultry Rights activists clucked in delight as the foxes got their comeuppance at the film’s end. And might as well polish off an Oscar now for that fabulous supporting actor who chirped in four languages!

That’s it for now. Until next time, this is Feathers Mendelbeak saying keep your wings clipped and your eggs warm. CCFN!

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE RESTROOM KIND

2009-09-05T21:54:00.000-07:00

Ah, life, why must you taunt us so with your endless mysteries?

How many of us have not marveled in awe at the wonder that is Stonehenge, the inscrutable Dead Sea Scrolls, the perplexing and annoying three-legged chickens of Pacoima?

Since I have written several extensive volumes on these enigmas in my prize-winning tome, “Great Mysteries of the World: What Up With That?” I will now direct my attention to perhaps the greatest puzzle that has taunted mankind since time began:

Why can’t I find a decent faculty restroom on a public school campus?

Sure, on occasion I strike it lucky with the first restroom I visit. But with God as my witness (and I know He is watching this unfold closely), I often have to enter four or more faculty restrooms before I find one that is acceptable.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, I am not being fussy or particular. I’m just looking for a decent facility so I can drop the kids off at the pool as quickly and safely as possible.

Here’s what happened just the other day as I hunted for a restroom, and trust me, this was not unusual. (Keep in mind that each faculty restroom has only one stall.)

• First Restroom: Sign posted on front door saying “Out of Order.”

• Second Encounter: No sign on door. OK so far, and I open the door as if I’m in a horror movie and anything could appear on the other side. No go: the toilet is clogged up with a bouillabaisse of bowel movements.

•Third: OK, a couple of dead cockroaches, but no live ones and no spiders that may want to pitch a tent in my tuches. But then, alas, no toilet paper. On to the next one.

(Now keep in mind that on a large high school campus, these restrooms are miles apart from each other, so I am clenching my buns and trotting from one corner of the campus to the other, waiting for my sweet release like Rush Limbaugh waiting for his maid to bring his oxycontin or Michael Jackson begging for his injection of propofyl.)

• Fourth Try: All right! This is a newer facility. Even has air-conditioning, instead of a pipe that leads outside directly in front of someone’s leaf blower. As I do my business, I’m feeling like Donald Trump depositing gold bars in one of my tacky hotels. All is well, time to wash my hands, but then: no water from the faucet.

• Fifth Visit: Back to the doody-filled bathroom mentioned in the Second Encounter, where a trickle of water allows me to wash my hands. Finally, mission accomplished, this time with no casualties.

In the past, there have been variations on this quest—no soap, no paper towels, no toilet seat covers—you get the idea. And as far as hot water goes, that’s harder to find than a convincing performance by Jessica Alba.

So, the next time you feel self-conscious when using the facilities at your own place of work, just remember, it could be worse. You could be back at high school.

TODAY’S RECOMMENDATION: THE FLU!

2009-08-19T17:12:00.000-07:00

If you find yourself stuck in a rut during these last dog days of summer, may I make a helpful suggestion? Get the flu!

Speaking as one who has had this precious gift for three weeks now, I think I speak with authority when I say it’s just the spice you need to sprinkle on your doldrums.

If you’re really lucky, it may even develop into bronchitis. Mine did!

Just look at the benefits of inviting the flu into your life:

• Sleep: Who needs another boring night of restful, uninterrupted sleep? With the flu, your sleep pattern is full of excitement, broken up all night long with intervals of coughing spasms, cold sweats, and expectoration. Every night is like a party. It does wonders for your marriage, too; just when your spouse was complaining about how predictable you are, she will never know just when you will cough in her face!

• Mucus: With the flu, say goodbye to the everyday routine of breathing in and out. Boring! Instead, each breath you take is like a new adventure, and usually results in a wonderful mucous mélange spewing out of your throat.

• Drugs: If you can finally get to see a real doctor, you can enjoy the benefits of miracle pills to tackle your flu. (Actually, it’s a miracle if they work, so don’t worry.) One possible side effect is diarrhea, so you may have a chance to create your own personal poo stew.

• Diet: Still need to shed a few pounds from all those BBQ parties you’ve been enjoying over the summer? No worries! With the flu, you won’t feel like eating a thing. Watch the pounds melt away. I’ve already lost 10 pounds and counting.

So what are you waiting for? Go lick some doorknobs. Hang around toddlers. Use a public rest room. Visit a Wal-Mart. And soon you will know the delights that the flu can do for you!

BEWARE THE TURTLE!

2009-08-02T16:59:00.000-07:00

People say there are no adventures in suburbia. That they are sterile, overly planned, anally retentive communities divorced from the excitement of a big city, the natural wonders of a rural setting, or the cozy cement comforts of a mental institution.

Well as a suburb dweller, I am here to tell you that suburbia can be the best of all these worlds.

Why, just today, the so-called predictable suburbs threw us a curve ball when the lovely and angelic Mrs. Jerry K discovered a turtle—yes, a turtle--in our garage.

How did this mysterious, prehistoric creature get in the garage? Was he there to deliver a message to me? Was he a time traveler? Or did he just lose his way? Speak to me, turtle, I beg of thee!

After spending two hours questioning the turtle and receiving little more than a shrug in return, I realized this would be one tough shell to crack.

Soon, I was faced with a predicament that we all face at some point in our lives: What do you do if you find a turtle in your garage?

Drawing upon my vast knowledge of Turtology, I sprang into action. First, I needed some sort of device to pick the turtle up. My forklift was in the repair shop, so I resorted to my bright yellow Playtex gloves.

Now, some of you may be wondering why I just didn’t pick him up with my bare hands.

I laugh at your ignorance. And at your funny hat.

If you knew anything about turtles, you would realize that these exotic marsupials secrete numerous poisons to which there are no antidotes, despite the continuous efforts of our finest scientists and yearly telethons.

In addition, you may have seen the Japanese documentary know as “Gamera,” in which it is proven that a turtle can recede into his shell and then shoot flames out of his opening, launching himself into outer space. No way I’m gonna risk that; hence, the protective Playtex gloves.

Just as I was ready to call 911, Homeland Security, and Appleby’s, I discovered that turtle X actually belonged to the next-door neighbors.

Amazingly, said neighbor picked up her turtle with her bare hands, and returned it to her backyard.

Oh well, it’s her funeral.

WHY NO TEARS FOR BOZO?

2009-07-06T17:16:00.000-07:00

The nation is busy mourning Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, Ed McMahon, Billy Mays, Moishe “Clucks” Beakman, and other big-name celebrities who passed away recently.

Yet amid all the hubbub (that’s right, damn it, I’m angry enough to say “hubbub”!), no mention is made of the fact that almost a year ago today Bozo the Clown passed away.

Think about it. Who gave more kids pleasure?

Ed McMahon? His job was to sit on a couch on the “Tonight” show, or introduce bad acts on “Star Search.” That is, when he was sober enough. I would have done his job for half the salary.

Farah Fawcett? She may have fulfilled a service for young boys just discovering jacking the dum-dum, but just try sitting through one episode of “Charlie’s Angels.” It sucks! Almost as bad as the movies.

What did Michael Jackson do for kids? Scared the shit out of them!

Meanwhile, Billy Mays just tried to sell us crap, and the less said about Beakman, the better. We all know about that scandal: the feathers, the bloody spatula, the deep fryer, the caws for help.

But then there was Bozo. The red swooping hair. The bright nose. The big painted smile. The cartoons.

He just wanted to be our pal, make us laugh, forget our childhood worries for a while. Sing us a song.

And yet, no one mourns the death of Bozo, one year later. There are no tears for this clown. No tributes at the Staples Center. No day of mourning called for by Reverend Al Sharpton, who even looks like a black Bozo.

Well, Bozo, my friend, if you’re up there in clown heaven reading this, please know that some of us still care, and still remember. So, grab your big fake nose, Bozo, and honk twice if you can hear me:

It’s Bozo, Bozo,
Always smiles, never frowns,
Bozo, Bozo,
Bozo the Clown.

AM I A LIBERAL?

2009-07-05T21:19:00.000-07:00

I believe in a woman’s right to choose.
I believe gay people have the right to get married.
I like good horror movies.
I have a B.A. in English.
I eat red meat.
I have never missed voting in an election.
I am agnostic.
I pay my taxes, early, every year.
I am a public employee and a union member.
I listen to more Grateful Dead than I should.
I still listen to Howard Stern every day.
I live in the suburbs.
I am a member of an art museum, and often go to the theater.
I am a native Angeleno.
I read two newspapers every day, and mostly non-fiction books.
I wish I had kept my old vinyl records and my turntable.
I am still married to my first wife.
…So, my question to you is: Does This Make Me a Liberal?

OH, IT’S ON!

2009-06-27T15:28:00.000-07:00

Summer is here, and that means only one thing around the old hen house: Time to battle the bugs.

• First up: Roaches.

These crap-colored creatures love to brag about how cool their exoskeletons are (“You know, we were the inspiration for both ‘Alien’ and ‘Predator’ ” they always boast), and only appear in our garage when the weather gets very hot.

As I’ve learned through my years of extermination research, it’s difficult to just step on these suckers. They have billions of sensors (I think IBM made them) that respond to any change in the air current. So, they can actually feel your shoe or newspaper approaching.

And I swear that more than once, I have smashed a roach, gone to the kitchen for a paper towel, and returned to find the roach gone! Not even a chalk outline remaining.

I’ve tried everything : spraying, boric acid, roach motels, flame throwers. Nothing.

Finally, one evening I noticed these brown demons milling about in the street near our driveway. They were coming from under the manhole cover!

After several hours feeling nauseous while pondering the word “manhole,” I realized that these little scurrying shits were crawling out of the sewer, into my garage, and then into the house.

The solution was as obvious as Rush Limbaugh’s drug habit: Plug up the manhole-cover holes, and the mothereffers can’t get out.

This discovery worked like a charm. This discovery was similar to Jonas Salk’s cure for polio, but my breakthrough was infinitely more important. Think about it: We all have bugs, but how many of us have polio?

The problem is, the holes are still plugged up, and the vile vermin are rearing their annoying antenna yet again.

Latest solution: Glue traps. Works pretty good, but you need to find only the dumbest roaches to walk into them.

• Second contender: Flies.

No solution for this. I’ve tried bug zappers, but guess what? They only work at night, and we’re eating outside during daylight.

I’ve also tried those plastic bags that you fill with water. These work great—if you want to have your backyard smell like rotten chicken livers. But you’ll still have flies.

• Public Enemy #3: Ants.

These are actually the easiest to get rid of. The solution: Get some of those diaphragm crystals, and pour them out where the ants gather for their little ant hootenannies.

Ants are so stupid, that they’ll see the crystals and think “Ooh, food! Yummy! Let’s take it back to impress the Queen and share it with all the workers! What’s the worst that can happen? And then we can all watch ‘Gossip Girl.’ ”

The real question about ants is: Why do they appear?

Some say when it’s really hot outside, the ants are looking for water. OK, fair enough.

But then when it gets very rainy, the ants are supposedly looking for dry areas.

Well, which is it, ants? Take a stand!

Here’s the bottom line: Thank the Lord above for chickens. They eat bugs. What more could you want from an animal, I ask you.

SPOILED BY CDS?

2009-06-26T00:50:00.000-07:00

It think it’s official: I am too old for rock concerts.

You see, I turned 53 on Wednesday, and just returned tonight, disappointed, from seeing the band Wilco at the Wiltern Theater.

It’s not Wilco’s fault. They are great musicians. I have all their CDs and DVDs and can’t wait for their new release on June 30.

They really make some incredible music that ranges from folk rock, to progressive, to alternative country, to sonic experimentation.

So it’s not them. It’s two things: the sound quality and the hassle.

The hassle (you know, buying the tickets, paying a fortune for parking, dealing with crowds and traffic) is really not that big a deal for me. I figure it’s just part of the price of going out. If the hassle kept me from doing stuff, then I would really be old.

The main problem, then, is the sound quality. It was incredibly muddy and distorted. Now whose fault is this? The band’s? The theater’s? My ears? Dick Cheney’s?

As I was listening to this awful audio, all I could think about was how much better their stuff sounds on CD. It’s not that the band can’t play; it’s just that the CD sound is so refined and clear, anything less is a letdown.

I guess I’m now at the point that I would rather buy a CD and/or a DVD of a live performance than go to the concert. In fact, I did exactly that recently instead of buying tickets for this year’s Leonard Cohen, Van Morrison, and Eric Clapton/Steve Winwood concerts.

And you know what? The DVDs were far less expensive, the sound quality is outstanding, I can see everything perfectly, and they only cost about $20 bucks each. And I can watch or listen to them over and over again.

Yeah, I know that I’ll be missing out on the “communal experience” of being in an audience. But go ask the Manson family and the Branch Davidians about communes. I have a feeling they would take a pass next time.

When it comes to attending live performances, perhaps the key is to stick to small, intimate clubs. Like jazz clubs…before they become extinct altogether.

Meanwhile, I am still looking forward to the Steely Dan concert in August. Hey, those guys are even older than me, so maybe it will work out this time.

As long as I don’t break my hip by clapping too rigorously.

OLD GUY WANTS A CAR

2009-05-30T13:52:00.000-07:00

This really old guy at work, Jasper, was finally going to break down and buy a new car after having no other choice. He wanted to get as bare bones a model as possible, and didn’t even want a radio in the car.

“A radio? Why would I want a radio in my car? They charge extra for that, don’t they? What is it, both AM and FM? I don’t even know the difference, and you know what? I don’t care.

“Back in my day we didn’t have confounded radios in cars to entertain us. Me and my mammy would drive along and have whistlin’ contests. You know, who could whistle the longest, who could whistle the loudest. Sometimes if we got tired of that we’d play Name That Tune by whistlin’ a little ditty and tryin’ to guess each other’s song. Of course, we only had three songs back then.”

(There was no way I was going to tell him that I have media overload in my own car, with my AM/FM, six-CD changer, satellite radio, and auto-suck installed.)

Jasper continued on his nostalgic roll.

“In fact, I think we would get along just fine without these car contraptions. When I was a youngster, we would wait all day for the Pony Express to come along and deliver our mail. I still remember that snorting, fine brown steed dropping road apples as he ran down the dirt path to our farm. Later on, Pa and I would mosey on down to the fishin’ hole for a spell and catch a perch or two. We’d grill those up, untie Ma for a while, and maybe fuck a couple of sheep.”

And it was then, as the old guy was staring skyward, eyes in the back of his head, a little stream of drool slipping down the corner of his mouth, that the clowns came and finally took Jasper away.

The next day, the entire office staff celebrated with special cupcakes. Mine was vanilla with rainbow sprinkles and a little plastic tractor on top. “This is for you, Pops,” I said as I swallowed the tractor and danced the Funky Chicken, to the amusement of all.

GOD VISITS SUMMER SCHOOL

2009-05-30T13:48:00.000-07:00

I already have my opening speech prepared for the first day of teaching summer school this year.

“OK students, before we start let’s take a minute and hope that God is looking down on us all on this first day of summer school and is going to guide us through this experience.”

I will then look to the skies and after a dramatic pause, when all is silent, make a little muffled whispery noise out of the side of my mouth.

(Looking around, amazed and wide-eyed.) “Wait a minute. Did you hear that?”

More whispery noise.

“That sounded kind of like a kitten, but all the kittens around here were killed a long time ago.”

Whispery noise.

“You know what? I think that’s God. He is looking down on us! Shhh, let’s listen.”

Whispery noise.

“What’s that, God? You are watching over us? And you have some thoughts for us?”

Whispery noise.

“Oh, I see. Yes, God, I will pass on your words.”

(Back to addressing the students levelly.) “God told me that you all losers better fucking pass summer school.”

THE DOODY PARADE

2009-05-25T19:25:00.000-07:00

It seems that every year there is a research study that concludes peoples’ biggest fear is public speaking. I beg to differ.

In fact, according to a new report using laboratory chicken experimentation, the biggest fear people have is: Making a doody somewhere other than their house.

This is probably most difficult to avoid when you are work, and often put into motion only as a last resort. Even then, we need to wait for the right time.

They say there are no atheists in foxholes. I also believe there are no atheists when you have to unload at work, because soon the praying begins…

“Please Lord, don’t let any co-workers be in the restroom when I:
a. Enter the restroom.
b. Enter the stall.
c. Am in the middle of my movement.
d. When I exit the stall.
e. When I exit the restroom.”

I had insult added to injury yesterday when I visited a teacher at a different high school. Before we got down to work she asked if I needed to use the restroom.

I desperately needed to. I was hoping to hold my bowels hostage until after our meeting and I arrived home. But like an expectant mother, that precious bundle of brown joy was coming out and had a mind of its own. So, I was actually glad she offered it.

But then came the kicker. I had to get the key from the Main Office. No big deal, I naively assumed, until the key came.

I was handed a giant, four-foot piece of wood shaped like a key. It may as well have been 10 feet tall and fluorescent pink. Attached to this was a heavy-duty chain from which the real restroom key was dangling.

So now I have to prance down the hall, holding this enormous wooden key that tells the entire world that I’m going to the bathroom.

I felt like I was leading a parade, holding my giant toilet key like a baton and shouting gleefully, “Hey everybody, follow me! Come join the doody parade! Ta Ta Ta Da Da Da! Yay!”

Like this was a production of “The Music Man” and I should be wearing some ornamental headdress and be followed by trumpet players and baton twirlers. What was I, The Pied Piper of Poop?

I won’t even pretend to understand the school’s motivation for forcing visitors to cart around such a humiliating talisman just to use the facilities.

The only good news was that despite all the turmoil, everything flowed like a doody-filled river.

Good thing too, because I faced Memorial Day traffic on the way home, and my usual 20-minute drive took 60 minutes. Had I not used the restroom, I would have experienced my own battlefield with an explosion in my pants.

CRAZY BREAD

2009-05-19T12:46:00.000-07:00

The World’s Worst Comedian stopped by my living room the other night to share his humorous observations.

“So I’m looking through my morning newspaper and I see an ad for a pizza joint. The ad says that to make my pizza meal complete, I can add a two-liter Pepsi and an order of Crazy Bread.

“Now, I understand the Pepsi, because that’s an all natural beverage and quite healthy for you. But Crazy Bread?

“I don’t know about you, but while I’m eating a pizza--which is, um, bread—why would I want to add more bread to it?

“And if I already had bread in my pizza, how would adding more bread make this meal in any way more complete?

“Are they calling it Crazy Bread so they can trick people into thinking that it’s really not bread--it’s Crazy Bread!

“I say you would have to be Crazy to even eat it!”

…And then, as mysteriously as he appeared, the World’s Worst Comedian vanished, leaving nothing behind but the stench of stale cigar smoke, and a hearty “Hey-Oh!”

WHY DO MEN WEAR TIES?

2009-05-17T19:41:00.000-07:00

If you have any kids, you will know the answer to this question.

When does your kid tell you that something is due at school on Monday morning? That’s right: on Sunday evening.

My little peep has been working on his John Hancock (how appropriate!) book report for several weeks. We have been ahead of schedule, following the teacher’s written instructions, confident that he’ll be ready on the due date.

But what I didn’t know was that the teacher told him that he also needs to dress like John Hancock as he delivers his oral report.

Which led him to ask Mrs. Jerry K, “Mom, do we have a tux?”

Now, realize that I work in public education. Translation: I have no neckties, one old sports coat that is forced to match with everything, and nothing even approaching a tux.

By some miracle, my hen produced a black sport coat, and something resembling a tie. And it didn’t look bad on him. The length of the coat even fit in with Hancock’s era.

He was a little hesitant about the faux-tie, however. And that was when I informed him that ties are just there to cover up the shirt buttons anyway.

Well, you thought I had farted at a tea party or something.

My hen shot me one of those looks. “Why are you making up such stupid stuff?”

So, off to the Internet I went, because everyone knows that everything on the Web is true.

Turns out that no one is exactly sure why men wear ties. My answer was among the many, so I felt somewhat vindicated.

One answer I found frequently was that men wear ties because they point to their crotches, thereby communicating an image of power.

I never heard of that before, probably because my penis is so enormous, I figured I would never need to point it out to anyone.

THE WORLD'S MOST PERCEPTIVE BANK TELLER

2009-05-17T19:13:00.000-07:00

Somebody made my day--perhaps my year--yesterday.

A young, blonde, beautiful bank teller asked me, “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Tom Hanks?”

This is the first time anyone ever told me I looked like someone who others may actually consider handsome.

Now, when I related this story to Mrs. Jerry K (aka The Hen), I was met with a fusillade of guffaws. I milked the teller’s remark for all it was worth, as husbands will do. Now, two days later, she refers to the teller as “some blonde bitch.”

I just respond by explaining how this teller not only had perfect eyesight, but was also quite intelligent and perceptive.

I have actually been told before that I look like someone else. For example, students have told me I look like Jon, Garfield’s owner in the comic strip. Then again, those students were on crack.

Usually, I will get compared to the actor Daniel Stern. In fact, I was once in a video store, and a little boy approached me and asked, “Were you in ‘Home Alone’?”

“No,” I replied, “I just look like him.”

I’ll never forget the disappointed look on that little boy’s face. If I had to do it over again, I probably would have lied to him. After all, everyone knows that it's perfectly OK to lie to a kid if it makes him happy. That's why my son thinks I wrote "Harry Potter."

The funny thing is, all these people are mistaken, because I think I really look an awful lot like Brad Pitt.

EROTIC SERVICES BANNED ON “CLUCK’S LIST”

2009-05-14T15:38:00.000-07:00

An online classified ads website known as “Cluck’s List” was ordered to eliminate its “erotic services” category today on the grounds that some ads were actually offering poultrytution.

Was this decision a justifiable one, or just another case of walking on eggshells? Read these samples from Cluck’s List, and you be the judge:

• “Looking for a fine, upstanding young cock to take care of me and scramble my eggs. Interest in taking dirt baths a plus. Open to swapping incubators. No turkeys need apply.”

• “Do you like breasts? I am a young French hen with two juicy ones and am into grilling, frying and breading. I enjoy large peckers who like to cluck all day. I am open to Egg Beaters and like to keep a kinky coop.”

• “I am looking for that special cock who would like to pluck my feathers. I love to lay eggs, and prefer it sunny-side up.”

AN INVITATION

2009-05-10T20:09:00.000-07:00

If you get a chance, check out the new blog by my friend Jesus C. This is his first blog and he could really use the encouragement.

You'll find it at http://funwithjesus.blogspot.com/

Thanks.

THE FIVE POLYPS OF THE APOCALYPSE

2009-05-07T19:56:00.000-07:00

Today was my follow-up visit, two weeks after my first colonoscopy. The results are in: I had five polyps. One was quite large, another was medium-size, and the last three were small.

I have decided, with the guidance of my life coach Moishe, to call the big one Smegma, the medium one Yonkel, and the three little ones the Jonas Brothers.

The two large polyps showed “a tendency to develop cancer,” according to the doctor, while the other three were as harmless as an Owen Wilson movie.

But because of those two big suckers, I need to return in one year to have another colonoscopy. (I can only pray it will be as delightful as the first one!) That doesn’t mean I’ll need to have the procedure every year, but only that it is precautionary. Most people over 50 only need to have one every five years. I think I hate those people.

Bottom line (pun intended): It looks like I dodged a bullet, and that people the world over can rest assured they will continue to receive more much-needed chicken-related humor.

Oh yeah, and I almost forgot to tell you that I saw Jesus. He appeared to me as the doctor’s news echoed in my head.

He floated before me, and in each outstretched hand he held my two largest polyps. He was much shorter than in his pictures.

He said softly (and, surprisingly, in a heavy Yiddish accent): “Jerry K, my son, I have spared your life this time. But now you must go forward and tell my flock about the importance of having a camera shoved up one’s tuches.”

He finished by saying, “It is your duty,” and I could swear I heard him laughing at his own joke.

And then I realized something: I bet Jesus has a difficult time finding an audience for his jokes. For all we know, he may be quite the jocular fellow, but it’s not like he has the chance to hang around and banter with his co-workers or friends. He probably feels pressured to be philosophical and serious all the time, like he’s a 20-year-old Comparative Literature major or something.

And here I was feeling bummed out that I have to have another colonoscopy so soon, when in reality, it’s better than being Jesus.

THE REAL/FAKE NEW FALL TV SEASON

2009-05-06T18:41:00.000-07:00

It’s that exciting time of year once again when the major television networks—ABC, NBC, CBS, CluckTV—begin to promote their new shows for the fall season.

As a special treat, we present to you the original pitch ideas for new Fall TV shows. But here’s the twist:

CAN YOU TELL WHICH OF THESE SHOWS ARE REAL AND CURRENTLY IN PRODUCTION, AND WHICH ARE FAKE?
(Answers below.)

• “Clown Dick”:
In this gritty one-hour drama, a circus clown (portrayed by Senator Barney Frank) enjoys entertaining the masses under the big top during the day, but at night leads a secret life as a private investigator.

• “Senior Cribs”:
Based on the popular MTV “Cribs” show, this documentary-ish series offers a voyeuristic look at the moist and confused lives of the residents of an assisted living complex in Barstow, California. In the first episode, Murray gets high when he mistakenly chug-a-lugs Polident, Evelyn tries to remember the name of a movie she saw the night before, and a disoriented Sylvia yells at her kasha.

• “My Little Jew”:
In this new sitcom, a washed-up supermodel (Anna Faris) gets drunk and finds herself married to a midget rabbi (Peter Dinklage). She tries to make the best out of it in this knish-out-of-water story.

• “America’s Favorite Geek”:
This new reality show is not about the nerdy guy who ends up being your boss or marrying your niece. It’s about actual geeks who bite heads off chickens. As we learn more about each geek by watching their sappy, heartbreaking yet oddly hilarious back-stories, viewers vote each week for the most deserving geek. The final winner gets a bag of shit. Sponsored by KFC and PETA.

(Answer: They are all real!)

THE SCOOP ON MY POOP

2009-04-26T19:29:00.000-07:00

Every since my first colonoscopy a week ago, I have been obsessed with my doody…at least more so than usual.

I was consumed with questions:
Will I ever make a doody again?
If so, how long will it take?
What will it look like (e.g., color, shape, consistency)?
Will it be able to play the piano?

Well, I will no longer keep you in suspense, for I am here to tell you that, so far, my doodies have been absolutely fascinating.

The first doody reared its bulbous head exactly two days after the procedure, and I am proud to report that I created a ginormous mound of the brown magic. That was quite surprising; I figured since my colon was starting from scratch, so to speak, I would embark down this newly-paved Doody Avenue with a series of small doodies. Imagine my delight at the precious plethora of poop.

To paraphrase Kahlil Gibran (or was it Morris Schmeckman?), “This was the first doody of the rest of my life.”

As if that wasn’t exciting enough, the following day I had not one, but two bowel movements: one in the a.m. and one in the p.m. This was becoming more intriguing than Season Four of “Lost.”

However, nothing prepared me for what happened today. It was another a.m. visitation, and this time, nestled next to each other in the bowl like two innocent newborn (brown) chicks were two magical turds—each the exact same size and shape, each complete with a pert little tail. If I ever doubted the existence of God, this put the kibosh on that, fella.

It was akin to laying eyes upon Donny and Marie, or Sonny and Cher, and other great humanitarians of the early 1800s. I had to fight back the temptation to dress them up in cute outfits and take them with me to the L.A. Times Festival of Books.

Needless to say, my anal region explodes with excitement in anticipation of what will happen next.

HOW DO THE “SURVIVORS” SURVIVE?

2009-04-26T19:25:00.000-07:00

Around the old chicken coop I like to call home, my hen, my little peep and I never miss an episode of “Survivor.” It’s a little more sophisticated than “Masterpiece Theater” and twice as entertaining.

Perhaps the most amazing part of “Survivor” is when the contestants’ occupations are superimposed on the screen, underneath their names. It doesn’t take long to realize that the vast majority of these people do not have real jobs. (They are also a bunch of dummies, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.)

Here are some of the actual job titles that belong to this season’s contestants:

• Soccer Coach:
First of all, nobody plays soccer in the United States unless they are between the ages of 5 and 9, and those soccer coaches are all voluntary. They don’t even keep score at those games, and every kid gets a trophy.

• Former Pop Star:
This player is African-American and quite overweight, but no, it’s not Aretha Franklin. Case closed—no one has ever heard of her.

• Bicyclist:
Again, it’s not Lance Armstrong. Therefore, no one is paying him to ride a frickkin’ bike.

• Hairstylist:
Like most hairdressers/stylists, her hair looks ridiculous. That must be a job requirement.

• Principal:
OK, now at least we have a real job, but I’m still suspicious. She must have filmed this season during summer vacation; otherwise, how could she leave her school for 30 days? Secondly, she is going to be a major distraction when she returns to school, because you can bet that every single one of her students watching this season is scrutinizing every square inch of her. When she returns to school, she is in for a world of hurt, and the sarcastic comments will be passed down for generations.

• Entrepreneur:
Do I really need to even comment on this one?

THE DECIDER CHICKEN ASKS: "WHICH IS SADDER...?"

2009-04-21T20:13:00.000-07:00

• A three-legged puppy…or…
A woman over 45 dirty-dancing?

• Goldie Hawn’s forced smile…or…
Madonna’s sinewy arms?

• Martin Scorcese’s “Bringing Out the Dead”…or…
Oliver Stone’s “U-Turn”?

• Two-Buck Chuck…or…
Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill?

• The American Music Awards Show…or…
The Grammy Awards Show?

• Lifetime Television…or…
The Hallmark Channel?

ORIFICE WORLD TOUR 2009 CONTINUES!

2009-04-20T12:06:00.000-07:00

Forget about frying chickens at Coachella. Don’t molt in the sun at Bonnaroo. The hottest event this year is the Orifice World Tour 2009.

In case you’ve been living in a shell, let’s bring you up to speed:

The Orifice World Tour is just beginning, but so far is making a big splash all around the world, and beyond. Here is the schedule so far:

March 27
Sherman Oaks, CA
Headliner: Wisdom Tooth Extraction
Opening Act: Novacaine

April 21
Mission Hills, CA
Headliner: Colonoscopy
Opening Act: The Cramps

To get the most out this unique experience, please remember the following:

• Avoid solid foods.
• Clear liquid diet only.
• Don’t do drugs; instead drink four liters of this shit called Tri-Lyte before the performance.
• As always, use Kirkland Signature for all your paper needs.

More dates will be announced soon. Keep checking this blog, or look for listings in Peeple Magazine.

“THE TRUTH ABOUT EASTER”

2009-04-10T16:52:00.000-07:00

Best Bet for Sunday:

A television special entitled “The Truth About Easter” will be premiering Easter Sunday on CluckTV. Hosted by the late talk show host Larry King, the program focuses on famed Easterologist and poultry rights activist Doctor Moishe Peckerman. Here is an excerpt:

King: What problem do you have with Easter, Doctor?

Peckerman: First, we have an animal known as a “bunny,” that for some reason lays eggs all over the Christian world. As a scientist, Larry, I have seen many bunny fetuses. Let me tell you, they are twisted, vile, disgusting things—much like human babies—and not at all smooth, perfectly shaped, and full of wisdom like chicken eggs. And then, just to add another layer of perversity, these so-called eggs come out in various colors. Some of my interns report that they have actually seen stripes on eggs, but only in Fresno.

King: But, doctor, don’t the goyishe children color the eggs themselves?

Peckerman: I have done extensive research, watching numerous Easter cartoons, and in every one the eggs are already colored when the bunny creature distributes them.

King: I myself cannot read, but someone on my staff mentioned something about an Easter toy you saw that you found particularly disturbing.

Peckerman: This was in a Target ad, which we all know is an anti-poultry organization. The toy being advertised was called “Cluckers.” It was, I kid you not, a wind-up chicken that lays jellybeans while it walks!

King: My God!

Peckerman: This is wrong on so many levels. And I won’t even go into the whole “ham” controversy, which according to my research comes from pigs—not chickens, not bunnies. It makes no sense, I tell you.

King: And yet, despite all these inaccuracies, gentiles the world over continue to celebrate Easter. To what do you attribute this, Doctor?

Peckerman: Larry, I have concluded there can only be one reasonable answer to that: radiated spores from outer space. Either that or zombies.

To see more of “The Truth About Easter,” be sure to check your local UHF listings for station and time zone. Not available in Greenwich Mean Time.

"FUN WITH CHICKENS" MAKES ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY

2009-04-05T19:39:00.000-07:00

Hi folks. Check out my letter published in this week's edition of Entertainment Weekly magazine. Unfortunately, you can't just click on the link. But you can type in this strange URL, or copy and paste it, and then read my letter titled, "Not 3-D Again!"

Here it is: http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20269579,00.html

Hopefully, your efforts will be rewarded.

MY FINAL CLUCK?

2009-03-25T19:26:00.000-07:00

I do not want to alarm my millions of readers, but this Friday may be the last time I scratch the earth looking for chicken feed and defecating in an open field. That’s right, on Friday I will be going under the knife.

Do not be misled by the happy-go-lucky photo that accompanies my profile, for I will be having a very serious operation. The survival rate is low. I of course will be heavily sedated, and if I should pass away I hope to reunite with all my fellow clucks who were sold to KFC and are now in that giant nest in the sky, wingless and dripping with barbecue sauce.

You see, it is my misfortune to suffer from a rare malady that the finest medical experts in the land have defined as a wisencalia toothalia, or in English, a “wisdom tooth.” I know--I never heard of such a strange, exotic thing either. I happen to have a mutated tooth far back in my mouth that has decided to grow out of my gum sidesaddle. It speaks to me at night, but it is not my friend.

As you can probably guess, this has been quite traumatic for my loved ones. My wife, Henrietta, can barely look me in the eye, her insane laughter masking the tears deep within her skinless, hormone-free, boneless breast.

Because she cannot bear these tragic circumstances, she is leaving the day before my operation for a spa retreat so she can cope with the possible loss appropriately. We all deal with tragedy in our own way. She is being accompanied by Rory, the strapping new rooster next door, just in case she isn’t strong enough to make the trip alone.

Upon my demise, I instructed Henrietta to bury my pecker in our nest, so that she can sit on it and think of me.

My littlest peep, Clucky, is becoming traumatized, as there is nothing sadder than being an orphaned chicken. He has been burying himself in his latest video game, not even looking up when I enter the coop. I know he too is afraid of bursting into tears. Or losing his place in the game.

As for yours truly, I have been praying day and night to the Mystic Chicken that I will survive this procedure. I suppose my biggest concern is this: Why would I have a wisdom tooth since it’s common knowledge that chickens have no teeth?

Hmm, I hope this doctor isn’t some sort of quack.

"DEAR EGGY" ...More Advice from a Poultry Perspective

2009-03-17T21:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Eggy,

I have been married to “Stan” for five years now, and he has been a good rooster and a fine role model to my little peeps. Lately, however, I have noticed a difference in him. His once robust and hearty crowing is now a limp caw. I heard he has been fighting other roosters lately, and I know that is illegal. Furthermore, some of my friends have told me he’s been seen dust bathing with other hens, and I have notice some strangely scented feathers in my nest lately. Next thing I know, he’ll be visiting the red-light hatcheries. When I confronted him, he gave me the lame excuse that all chickens look alike. Stan is still the only cock for me, but I don’t know what to do.

Signed,
Clucked Up

Dear Clucked Up,

It seems that Stan is having a lack of confidence due to his impotent cock-a-doodle-doo. He is fighting other roosters in order to prove his manhood to himself. Be assured that this is just a phase. I suggest you be extra nice to him. Compliment him on his pecker. Send the peeps out to the slaughterhouse for an evening so you too can be alone and then surprise him by wearing a sexy thong. As far as seeing other hens: Hello! We do look alike. The thong should put the kibosh on that.

CONFESSIONS OF A CHICKENSHIT

2009-03-12T18:24:00.000-07:00

Full disclosure time.

I can’t believe I am writing this, because it’s something I have never told anyone, and yet here I am ready to reveal a most embarrassing, humiliating thought to the millions of people who read this very blog.

Some of you may find it offensive. Others may think it is unbelievably inane. Still others may vomit uncontrollably. If this latter reaction includes you, you should probably high-tail it to the nearest pharmacia, pronto.

OK, enough hype. Here it is.

I don’t know about where you live, but in my neck of the ‘burbs, there is a unique phenomenon whenever I go to the movie theater, or as some of you may call it, “the picture show.” After first failing to pass myself off as a child, and then hunching over and pretending to be a senior citizen, I finally pay for my adult ticket and proceed to the inside of the theater. And that’s when it happens.

The guy taking my ticket and (inexplicably) tearing it in half, is 90 percent of the time retarded. I don’t mean that he’s not retarded the other 10 percent of the day; I mean that 9 times out of 10 the ticket taker is retarded.

(Disclaimer: I know the word "retarded" is not politically correct. Trust me, my heart goes out to these people. They have my empathy. My goal in this little story is to not pick on defenseless people less fortunate than I. Rather, my goal is to point out the shortcomings of my own thought process.)

Now first of all, let’s be honest. We usually go to the movies to escape. Right before I enter that darkened suppository of magical dreams, do I really want to be reminded that there are less fortunate people in this world?

I was looking for a little escapism, or perhaps some mental or emotional stimulation. But now I have to start worrying about all the retarded people in the world: Do they ever go to the movies? Would they even understand them? Is management paying them a salary or just giving them free popcorn for currency? Is “retarded” the right word? What does the world look like to them?

Hey, I just want to see some explosions and car chases and if I’m lucky maybe a breast or two, OK?

But this is not what I am leading up to, for I miraculously am able to shake off these sincere concerns for the less fortunate pretty easily and still enjoy the flick.

No, here’s the embarrassing part. When the retarded ticket-taker rips my ticket in half and hands it back to me with his gnarled hand and fingers, I am nervously extra-cautious that his fingers don’t touch mine, because…I AM AFRAID HIS RETARDATION IS CONTAGIOUS!

OH SHIT! IF HE TOUCHES ME, I MAY BECOME RETARDED, TOO!

Now, I think I have average intelligence, perhaps maybe a little above average, especially on Tuesdays. I didn’t attend a prestigious college, I didn’t take advanced classes in high school, and please don’t ask me any questions about history, geography, or math. But I think I have good common sense, am tolerant, and can figure things out on a regular basis. In addition, the more trivial and insignificant the information, the more likely I am to know it. No brag, just fact.

What I’m trying to say is: I am fully aware that mental retardation is not contagious. And yet, every time this poor soul hands me back my stub, I am careful that I DON’T MAKE PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH HIM.

I fully admit to being germ-phobic. Not OCD, but a little germ-phobic. That at least makes some sense, because you can catch a cold or other malady through physical contact.

But there is no study anywhere, not even in Peru or Sri Lanka, that proves you can become retarded by touching another retarded person.

And yet, I still recoil, and I want to know why. Is it simply a germa-phobic reaction? Or is it possible that I’m just being a retard?

"THIS IS PAUL HARVEY DEAD. STAND BY FOR WORMS!"

2009-03-04T20:55:00.000-08:00

We all heard the news just days ago that golden-throated, dulcet-toned, and chicken-headed radio commentator Paul Harvey went to the giant sound booth in the sky, where he will annoy the shit out of angels with his annoying, affected delivery, making the ethereal beings wish they were dancing with demons instead.

After becoming an acolyte of infamous red-baiting slanderer Joseph McCarthy and being second in line as the presidential running mate for uber-goober-rascist George Wallace, Harvey used his radio broadcasts to communicate news stories of dubious credibility and pitch crappy products to the following vulnerable poor souls:

The arthritic
The bald
The incontinent
The near blind
The aged
The denture-wearers
The premature ejaculators
The erectile dysfunctional
The deaf
The physically disabled
The constipated
The migraine sufferer
…You get the idea

Future News Flash:
Hordes of arthritic, toothless, constipated citizens wandered aimlessly along the streets of major American cities today. Clyde Beakman, professor of Pathetic Population Studies at Cal State Beaverville, believes this bizarre onslaught is the result of the death of Paul Harvey. "We have lost our leader," one wanderer mumbled. "I don't know where to buy my products now."

One of Paul Harvey’s most popular features was “The Rest of the Story,” in which he would tell a supposedly true story that had a surprise ending.

You may remember one in particular about a railroad worker who lived with his companion for many years. It was just the two of them, working together, playing cards, watching each other’s backs, having long talks, reading aloud to each other, making dinner for each other, etc. The surprise ending? The railroad worker’s companion was…a chicken.

Now you know “The Nest of the Story.” Good day!

DEAR EGGY

2009-03-02T19:47:00.000-08:00

Dear Eggy,

I was scratching around in Farmer Moishe’s field the other day when I ate something quite unusual. It was yellow and fluffy and unlike the feed that I usually consume…day after day, month after month, year after year. Only later did I realize that I had actually eaten some scrambled eggs that somehow found their way from the kitchen table to my grazing space. I know it was just an accident but the scary part is that I thought they were delicious! Eggy, does this make me some sort of animal?

Signed,
Cannibal Cluck

Dear Cannibal Cluck,

This is unusual, but not unheard of. I once knew a goose who swallowed some foie gras, and he was a fine bird, well respected and sergeant-at-wings of the Goose Council. Of course, when the other geese found out, they disemboweled him, leaving him honkless. My advice to you is: Stick to the regular delicious feed and don’t tell the other hens what you did. Nibbling on some Easter Peeps candy may help you wean yourself, but don’t get caught or you will be totally plucked.

WANTED!

2009-02-24T19:03:00.000-08:00

The Tic-Tac-Toe Chicken

This is a supreme con artist who travels from carnival to carnival. He uses sleight-of-wing techniques to sucker customers.

Unsuspecting rubes pay to play against him in a game of tic-tac-toe, figuring it would be easy to beat a simple chicken. However, this sly cluck always wins.

Warning: Do not let him mark a square first!

THE FORGOTTEN MUSICAL LEGACY OF “CHICKEN LIPS” PAYCOCK

2009-02-24T18:59:00.000-08:00

Anyone with even a passing interest in music knows how earlier musicians were big influences on modern songwriters. Without Elvis Presley or Buddy Holly, we may have never had The Beatles. Woody Guthrie served as a major influence for Bob Dylan, who later served as an inspiration for Bruce Springsteen. Perhaps most importantly, the brilliant Pat Boone was instrumental in creating the edgy genius of Donny and Marie Osmond.

Johnny Cash was another monumental figure in modern music. However, few people know about a folk singer who was a mentor for The Man in Black. He was the legendary “Chicken Lips” Paycock.

“Lips” had a hard life. He escaped from a KFC factory as a young cluck, only to make his way from barn to barn, plucking his guitar for chicken feed wherever he could, living the vagabond life of a free-range rooster.

He was not a saint though. He plucked many a hen during his travels, resulting in numerous paternity suits. Failure to pay peep support landed him in jail, and his experiences were reflected in perhaps his most famous song, “Foster Farm Blues,” which Johnny Cash later reinterpreted in his “Folsom Prison Blues.” The melody is strikingly similar, as are the lyrics. Judge for yourself…

Foster Farm Blues
By “Chicken Lips” Paycock

I hear that chicken cluckin,
It’s cluckin' like a hen
And I ain’t seen it lay an egg
Since I don’t know when,
I’m stuck in Foster Farms,
Just cock a doodlin’ do,
And when it’s feedin’ time,
I’ll be peckin' at my food.

When I was just a peep,
My nana clucked all night,
She told me, “Keep on crowin’, boy
Until you get it right,”
But I pecked an egg at Foster’s,
Just to watch it crack,
And after I plucked its mama,
I just ain’t been back.

“The Lost Scratches of ‘Chicken Lips’ Paycock” will be released on Hen House Records in time for Christmas. A special limited, individually numbered, slip-cased director’s cut edition on CD/DVD/CD-ROM/MP3/JPEG/Blu-Ray/Vinyl will also be available, but supplies are limited.

MY ENCOUNTER WITH THE MYSTIC CHICKEN

2009-02-19T12:59:00.000-08:00

Through the centuries, many of us have grappled with life’s biggest mysteries: Is there a Nog? What is the meaning of life? Why can’t Jennifer Aniston settle down and marry a nice boy?

It is precisely this kind of truth seeking that prompted me to search for the wisest, holiest, most philosophicalest visionary the world has ever known. I am speaking, of course, about the Mystic Chicken.

I remember the stories about the Mystic Chicken my mother told me when I was a little peep and still snuggled safely under my mother’s tuches. Whenever we had questions (“Mom, how come eggs aren’t round?” or “Mom, why do people
eat us?”), my patient mother would get misty-eyed, look to the heavens, sigh, and say simply, “Go ask the Mystic Chicken.”

Sometimes she would yell this loudly, he feathers flying hither and thither, to and fro, heckyl and jeckyll, wings akimbo. She even looked a little annoyed. Some of the other peeps said she was just fed up with my incessant questions, but I knew the truth: To seek the answers to my probing, intellectual questions, I must find the Mystic Chicken.

The Holy One sits day and night, cross-legged in his nest, high up in the barn rafters. There is no telling how he got up there, for although chickens have wings, they cannot fly. Hmm, I always wondered about that; maybe that can be one of my questions for the Mystic Chicken!

Reaching the top rafter was my first Herculean labor. It would probably take me months, perhaps even years to overcome this obstacle. But I was determined, and time was not a factor. Even if I turned old and putrid, I would meet the Mystic Chicken if it took my last dying cluck.

Fifteen minutes later, I finally made it to the top rafter, after enlisting the help of a local sherpa. And there sat the Wise One in all his glory, just as I envisioned him over these many years: gray feathers, a serene smile on his beak, a copy of the ancient Chinese life manual, the “I Chick,” at his wizened, flaky feet.

“Master,” I managed to cluck, “I have traveled all of these fifteen minutes, and through much hay and feces, to seek your guidance.”

The mystic one gently glanced up at me. “Yes, my son.”

“I must know: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

He stared far off into space for what seemed like sixty minutes, but it was only an hour. “To answer that, I must first ask you a question.”

“Yes, Master?”

“What is the sound of one wing flapping?” He divinely beady eyes were looking right through me.

“Well, Master, I suppose it would sound like, um, wind resistance?”

He laughed knowingly. “And why did the chicken cross the road, my yellow one?”

“Um, I guess so he could get to the other side?”

Another dismissive laugh. “You are very young, my son, and your small brain will soon molt. Tell me lad, if a rooster crows alone in the coop, does he make a sound?”

“I don’t see why not. With all due respect, Wise One, could you please return to my original query?”

“Oh, so now we use the word ‘query’! ‘Question’ isn’t good enough for you? Very well, my young cluck, what was your query again?”

“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” I repeated.

“I shan’t waste my time with such drivel. Obviously, the egg came first, or there would be no chicken.”

“But, wise one, wouldn’t there first need to be a chicken to lay said egg to begin with?”

At this moment, a miraculous thing happened. The Mystic Chicken got another faraway look in his eyes. I believe he suddenly got the calling to meditate. After lowering himself to speak at such a low level to me, he needed to return to the higher plane in which he usually resides.

I soon found myself in mid-air, for I had fallen off the top rafter. For a minute it looked like the Mystic Chicken’s leg had shot out and possibly knocked me off the rafter, but I knew that couldn’t be possible, for he was already deeply meditating and repeating his “yolk” mantra.

I guess I just wasn’t ready yet to interact with such a supreme being, so I returned to my mother’s tuches and spent the rest of the afternoon contemplating my pecker.

PECKS AND PANS

2009-02-17T20:01:00.000-08:00

Film Reviews
by Hollywood Hen House Legend Roger Eggbert

“The Dark Knight”

Now a lot of you folks have been clucking about this movie for a while now, and some even think it should have been nominated for best picture, but I for one have a major problem with it. Sure, it has fantastic special effects, cool explosions, and nobody whispers like Christian Bale—what range he has!

But there was one glaring omission: I did not see one chicken in this entire excuse for a film.

There was one scene in which Batman and some girl (who was no spring chicken, by the way) and some other guy are having dinner, and I was hoping that perhaps one of them was at least eating chicken, just so we could get some sort of representation. Yes, I know that of course it would be a dead chicken, but that would be preferable to the Hollywood conspiracy of pretending that chickens simply do not exist. But unless these beady little eyes are failing me, there was no chicken dinner to be found.

I did award “The Dark Knight” extra points, however, because human actor Heath Ledger’s facial makeup did include some red, yellow and white, which are all chicken-related colors.

For that, I give “The Dark Knight” two hard-boiled eggs.

“Underworld: Rise of the Lycans”

This movie left the theaters so fast, if you stopped to lay an egg, you may have missed it. Nonetheless, I still feel compelled to write about this cinematic travesty. In a year in which we saw the outstanding film “Yolk,” which starred human actor Sean Penn in a true story about a poultry rights activist, we still have chicken feed like this.

But here’s what really bothers me.

Those of you who have read my Pecks and Pans column over the past 20 years know all about me and my family history, especially if you read my memoir, “My Life as a Young Cluck.”

As a mere peep, I was on my own from a very early age, due to a certain fox, Henrich, who raided our hen house and plucked my mother clean. I still have a recurring nightmare in which I lay an egg, only to have a fox emerge from the shell and bite my pecker off. An owl psychiatrist has been helping me come to terms with this childhood event for many years.

But now here comes “Underworld: Rise of the Lycans,” which features several lycans, which is a fancy way of saying werewolves. And when I see wolves, I think foxes, and we all know what foxes do, don’t we? They raid hen houses! I think every motherclucker out there has family members who went to that giant coop in the sky because of some vicious fox, and this film just brings back those awful memories for all of us.

For the unwelcome return of my night terrors, I give “Underworld: Rise of the Lycans” one rotten egg.

ROOSTER KILLS WIFE AND PEEPS

2009-02-16T19:25:00.000-08:00

Quaintsville, VT--A rooster from Goyisha Farms killed his hens and three little peeps in a bizarre suicide-murder-cannibal-breakfast incident this morning.

Rory T. Roosterberg was discovered in the farm henhouse in at 7am. He had apparently pecked his wife to death and scrambled his two peeps. Bits of eggs were evident on Roosterberg’s beak.

A nearby henhouse cluck commented, “Everything seemed normal with them, but I did notice that Rory’s cock-a-doodle-do was a little plaintive this morning.”

The scene at the henhouse was a grisly one, with empty egg shells, feathers, and three crosses made of chicken feed. Officials are investigating who assembled the crosses, because it is common knowledge that all members of the Poultry Order are atheists.

Another neighbor believes she heard Roosterberg yelling “Frittata” repeatedly the night before. That may have been, however, his pet name for his wife.

Goyisha Farms owner Seymour Chang did mention that Roosterberg had lately been badgering his wife into having a boy. “I did hear him plucking her and crowing loudly into the wee hours. Which was unusual because according to my studies roosters are supposed to crow only when the sun comes up.” Chang has a doctorate in rooster husbandry from Pecker University.

One of Roosterberg’s fellow roosters said, “Rory was popular with all the hens. He was one of the biggest cocks in town. It’s really a shame this happened because he was the loudest crower on the farm, and so I didn’t have to strain so hard. He also owed me ten bucks.”

Roosterberg and his wife will be breaded and served during a ceremony at the Chang bar mitzah in the barn at noon Saturday.

LOCAL HEN RESENTS ATTENTION BEING PAID TO “OCTO-MOM”

2009-02-10T20:48:00.000-08:00

Quaintsville, VT—A local hen who has resided at Pipick Ranch for several years is upset about the extraordinary media attention being lavished on Nadya “Nutbag” Suleman, a mentally disturbed Californian woman who recently gave birth to eight future nutbags.

“Like most chickens my age, I lay at least one egg a day,” proclaimed Feathers Yolkberg, “but you don’t see me getting cool nicknames like ‘Octo-Mom.’ And I lay these eggs while having to listen to the constant clucking of all these other clucks all day long. I'd like to see Octo-Mom lay an egg under these conditions.”

Ranch owner Moishe Pipick agrees with Yolkberg. “Feathers lays eggs on a daily basis, and she was only on public assistance once, when she briefly became a free-range hen after losing her nest.”

Renowned mathematician Dr. Sidney Faygella has spent many years studying the laying habits of hens, and after careful analysis determined that a hen laying one egg a day will likely lay approximately 365 eggs per year. His theory, however, remains controversial.

“I’ve heard of Dr. Faygella’s work,” Yolkberg admits, “but on special occasions I sometimes lay two eggs a day. Yet the good doctor doesn’t enter that into his fancy schmancy equations.”

Pipick stated that no ICF (In Chicken Fertilization) is used to help hens like Yolkberg produce so many eggs each year. “I just feed ‘em,” he explained.

As for the future, this plucky little chicken mother hopes to soon enroll in Cluck State University, Quaintsville, in order to receive her Master’s degree in Rooster Husbandry.

And who tends to all of these eggs? “I think somebody eats them,” Yolkberg said.

THE GREAT COSTCO CAPER

2009-02-07T18:42:00.000-08:00

I was standing in line at my neighborhood Costco, wheeling along a flatbed filled with my weekly purchases of toilet paper, prunes and garden hoses, when I came to a shocking realization: I almost forgot to visit the Costco restroom.

Going into the Costco restroom is always a highlight of my trip. It is similar to when I visited that golden domed temple thingie in Jerusalem, only the Costco restroom has more Arabs.

After entering the restroom, I always make a point of signing the guest register attached to the clipboard hanging on the back of the door. It’s little touches like that that make customers feel welcome at Costco. Once, I even found some delicious Junior Mints that had unfortunately fallen on the floor near the toilet. However, utilizing the well-known 10-second rule (where you can still eat food from the floor 10 seconds after you see it), my mouth soon enjoyed a tingly and refreshing wake-me-up.

Much to my surprise, however, not everything in that magnificent palace of poop was up to the high standards I expect of Costco. For when I was done with my personal evacuation plan and reached for the toilet paper I was truly shocked. Why, this was not Kirkland Signature brand toilet paper at all!

Believe me, I am intimately familiar with the Kirkland Signature toilet paper: its feel, its dimensions, its scent, its texture, its taste. This was an imposter. And yet, doesn’t Costco exclusively feature, and indeed sell, Kirkland Signature paper products (including tissues and paper towels, not to mention their delicious rotisserie chickens, a dozen of which were currently getting cold on my flatbed cart.)

Something was amiss; I could feel it from the tip of my acid-refluxed esophagus down to my formerly fertile and now flaccid penis. Someone was trying to pull a fast one all right, and I bet the executives at Kirkland Industries would be very interested to know about this scam. But before I unleash all my rage in a diarrhea-like torrent, I will still give my beloved Costco a chance to explain itself. I’ll start with the manager. But where was he hiding?

I quickly donned my Kirkland Signature sunglasses so as not to draw suspicion and scanned the vast Costco landscape. There was Dottie, the customer service clerk. Hmm, her Costco vest seemed a little askew. And then there was Charlie, the rugged highly trained security agent, poised at the exit, pink highlighter in hand like a revolver, meticulously marking each shopper’s receipt as they exited these hallowed portals. Oh, Charlie, the stories you could tell!

So far, everything looked pretty normal, but all this observating was tiring me out. I reached into one of my dozen bags of Kirkland Signature Trail Mix for a quick blast of energy (take that, Red Bull!), when suddenly I noticed something very interesting. Churros were on sale today for 75 cents. I made a mental note to pick one up on my way out, unless I needed to make a detour to the Sheriff’s station to report a certain toilet paper swindle. And those Sheriffs laughed at me last time. Ha, this will show them.

After getting back in line to purchase another case of Kirkland Signature Extra Strength Glucosamine HCI Chrondroitin Sulfate Tablets, I realized that my checker was none other than Marcus, the Costco Manager. And some people believe that there is no such thing as fate.

I played it cool, gracefully whipping out my Costco card on request with lightning speed. As Marcus bent down to pick up my card, I noticed another interesting thing. He was wearing Kirkland Signature Denim Jeans.

This presented a conundrum: If Marcus was wearing said jeans, I could assume he was a fan of the fine Kirkland products. Then why on earth would he allow his store to have non-Kirkland Signature brand toilet paper in its restroom? There was only one possible answer: Marcus recently purchased a speedboat, divorced his wife, moved to Marina Del Rey to live the swinging speedboat single life, developed a severe gambling problem at the Commerce card clubs, was in debt to his bookie for $500,000, and needed the money to make his speedboat payments, not to mention alimony and hospital bills due to a conjugated sigmoidectomy. It was all so obvious. Why didn’t I see that before?

I did feel a bit of empathy for Marcus, so as he handed me my receipt, I simply said with a wink, “How are the waters?” Marcus acted dumb, as if he had no idea what I was referring to. I quickly let out a small fart, just so he would know that I was on to his Kirkland Signature toilet paper switcheroo. I could tell by his wince that he knew I was onto him. Whatever bribe you got, my friend, I hope it was worth it.

As I pulled my two flatbeds to the exit, I noticed a wink in Charlie’s one good eye as he counted my items and, not unlike Rembrandt, painted a pink mark on my receipt. So, Charlie, you old spotted owl, you knew too, didn’t you? Although I would continue my investigation another day, I rested easy knowing Costco was in good hands with Charlie on the job.

And there was still Dottie’s strange vest. But that would have to wait until my next Costco visit tomorrow. Something tells me my work here is not done yet. Not by a long shot.

ON THE TRAIL OF THE WILD CHICKI-NUT

2009-02-03T20:21:00.000-08:00

June 12

After scrimping and saving for over six months, I have finally arrived at the distant Schmegegee Islands. I have been reading about this tropical paradise for many years. Photos of this wondrous land have adorned the walls of my cubicle for even longer, allowing me to gaze upon the island’s clear blue waters, its golden sunsets, its serene beaches, and of course the island women.

Not that I was trying to escape from work, you see. The company that employs me makes the inspection slips you may find inside certain items of clothing you purchase. You know, the old “Inspected by No. 29” and such (that happens to be one of my personal favorites). Some of my so-called friends think it is a trivial job, but I firmly believe that we provide a valuable service. I mean, don’t you feel better buying a six-pack of underwear knowing that someone inspected them first for your safety? I thought so.

But this is not time to think about work. This is the time to enjoy the Schmegegees, and it was a warm welcome indeed as I stepped off the boat and the island natives performed energetic and exotic dances while escorting me to my hut. As I settled in for this tropical paradise that would be my home for the next week, one beautiful island girl gently took hold of my hand. Wow, I had been here only minutes and already an angel was at my doorstep. To my surprise, she had placed in my hand a small bright green oval nut. “Chicki,” she said, smiling. “You like.” She then slowly let her tongue slide out to show me that she had a Chicki-Nut in her mouth already. As she began sensuously chewing the nut, I popped one in my own mouth as well. After all, when in Rome…

June 13

As the sun rose the following morning, I unfortunately realized that I had been up all night. Perhaps it was the excitement of finally reaching my dream destination. But upon further reflection, I remembered the burst of energy I derived from that strange Chicki-Nut my island princess had shared with me.

It was then that I remembered a newspaper article that I had read some time ago about the Chicki-Nut. It explained how the majority of the island natives chewed on this nut all day long, and resulted in bursts of hyperactivity, super-energy, and sometimes hallucinations mixed with a sense of euphoria. Not only that but it was highly addictive, and produced a strange green fluid in one’s mouth that some say could lead to cancer of the phlanx. I think there was also some mention about how the distribution of Chick-Nuts was controlled by war lords on the island.

Well, I certainly don’t believe everything I read in the newspaper, and my experience yesterday with the Chicki-Nut was quite enjoyable. I have never been addicted to anything. Heck, I don’t even consume caffeinated drinks. The funny thing was, I almost felt a driving obsession to try the Chicki-Nut again, and as soon as possible. I figured that my background in the inspection slip business told me that this matter needed further…inspection. Luckily enough, as I walked to the town square, I found a Chicki-Nut vendor in no time at all. He was an island native, and was standing beside a pick-up truck filled with the green nuts and covered by a tarp. I wasn’t sure why he was standing off to the side of the square and carrying a machine gun, but I figured that this is probably the way they keep peace in this tropical paradise.

I popped six Chicki-Nuts in my mouth and soon afterward began my walk around the island. I could now get the full effect of this wondrous place: its bright pink palm trees, the purple monkeys who spoke perfect English to me and shared their glowing bananas, the clear cool orange ocean waters that undulated in geometric patterns. My heart was beating and pounding, and even seemed to be keeping time with the Neil Sedaka tunes that were in my head. After briskly walking around the perimeter of the 10-mile island 20 times, I noticed that I had not felt the effects of the Chicki-Nut whatsoever, but that I was glad to finally be here at the Schmegegees. On my way back to the hut, I made sure to get another 12 dozen of the Chicki-Nuts, just in case I wanted a snack later.

June 14

I had another sleepless night, but that was OK, since I was so excited to be here finally and enjoy my time on the island. My evening was not wasted, however, because as I chewed several Chicki-Nuts in the we hours, I had a burst of creativity and energy, due no doubt to the island breezes and the feeling that wires were branching out from the palm trees into my head. I used this time wisely, and made my own Chicki-Nut smoothies, toothpaste, and sandwiches. In the middle of the night, I decided to climb a tree near my hut, because I thought I saw some Chicki-Nuts high atop them, glowing and calling out to me like a gospel choir. After my invigorating climb to the top, I realized that I had been mistaken, and then lost my footing as a I slide back down the tree. I scraped my legs pretty badly, but fortunately I had made a salve out of Chicki-Nuts that night and as I applied it to my scratches I felt instantly better. I even walked around the island 20 more times, accompanied by a day-glo zebra, indigenous to the island. I heard loud noises as well, which at first I thought was gunfire, but then realized they must be fireworks, as people celebrated being in this heavenly place for another day.

June 15

As I walked back to my hut the next morning with 12 dozen more Chicki-Nuts, I tried to figure out why that newspaper article was so critical of these green delights that had become the center of my life. After all, these friendly little orbs are always complimentary toward me, they never put me down (like that one idiot at work who I plan to disembowel immediately upon my return), and they made me realize how strong, energetic, and powerful I really am. The only downside was that they sometimes made me constipated, but when I developed some suppositories out the nuts, that problem was licked.

That night I realized it was time to show my gratitude to my new best, and only, friends, and so I spent the evening creating a little shrine to the Chicki-Nut. I made a little nest out of my hair for some nuts to rest in, and surrounded them with candles and incense. It looked pretty good, but something was missing. I needed to show the nuts how much I truly loved and worshipped them. If only I had some jewels of some sort. Of course! The gold caps on my molars would be perfect. My devotion was so intense to the Chicki-Nuts that I couldn’t even feel a thing when I pulled the caps off my molars with my fingers and placed them alongside my hair nest.

June 16

As I awoke from my fetal position that morning, I thought that this would be a good day to try something new, so I immediately ran to the town square and bought 12 dozen more Chicki-Nuts. I may have stepped on a cat in my rush to the square, but then it looked back at me, smiled and said, “Me like Chicki-Nut, too.” Then it exploded. I purchased my nuts, popped about 10 in my mouth, and spent the rest of the day on the beach trying to balance seashells on my penis. That night in my hut I twirled for five hours.

June 17

As I dug myself out of a 10-foot hole, I realized that this was my last day on the island. My second shock came when I realized this was also my last day to consume Chicki-Nuts, as I cannot take them back to the States. Typical: we allow all kinds of harmful crap in the U.S., but the friendly little Chicki-Nut is forbidden. It just wants to make us happy, keep us company, and allow us to see the world as it really is: full of beautiful vibrating colors and gesticulating animals. It’s not like the guy I’m gonna kill in my office or all those whores in that bar back home who are always laughing at me whenever I read pick-up lines to them out of that book that that jerk sold me at the bookstore I should kill that guy too and I think I heard him say something about my mom once or was that my boss who said that because he sucks too at that stupid-ass job I have what was I thinking I wanted to be a podiatrist but no that costs money but everybody has feet my dad would say right before he left us to become a potato rancher or something else that he probably failed at.

Why can’t I just stay on this island with my new friends the Chicki-Nuts? They have been more faithful to me than anyone else. I love you, Chicki-Nut! And I know you love me. You get me. I know, maybe I could marry a Chicki-Nut and then I could stay on the island. And I’ll write to that newspaper and tell them the truth about you, that you stand for goodness, not evil. I will defend your honor, my love! No, that’s crazy, a Chicki-Nut would never marry me. Or it would just end in a messy divorce. Oh Chicki-Nut, why must you torture me so? Why why why???

June 18

From the Cleveland Post:

Ravenna Man Dies While Vacationing in Schmegegee Islands

Schmegegee Islands—Ryan Tuttle, longtime Ravenna resident, died from cancer of the phlanx while on vacation in this remote island location.

Tuttle was found in his hut with several strange green nuts stuffed in his underwear. About two hundred slips of paper with the handwritten words “Inspected by No. 29” were found lying on the floor. He was wearing nothing but the aforementioned underwear, a faded Margaritaville t-shirt, black socks and sandals.

Co-workers at Tuttles’ place of employment, Consolidated Tags, Inc., described Tuttle as a sad, rather slow-witted man who mostly stayed to himself .

“He had all these island-ish pictures in his cubicle,” said one male co-worker who asked to not be identified, “but I tried not to get too close to him. He smelled pretty bad.”

“We pretty much just laughed at him,” added another female acquaintance of Tuttle’s who would sometimes see him at a local bar. “He had these weird flakes all over his skin. We all just figured that one day he’d walk into the bar and kill us or something.”

Tuttle’s remains will be airlifted to his father’s potato farm in Wadworth, Ohio, where they will be used for potash.

OBITUARY OF A POULTRY LAUREATE

2009-02-03T19:54:00.000-08:00

Author, poet, and famed poultry laureate Henry Beakman died yesterday at the age of 102. After suffering for years from a smattering of embarrassing moles and warts, Beakman passed away in his home in his small New England town Quaintsville, Vermont, surrounded by his stuffed animals and pet worms.

In 1965, Henry Beakman took the revolutionary step of actually getting inside the mind of a chicken, and that unique voice served as the speaker of the most prolific stage of his career.

This was considered the writer’s “Yellow Period.” Amazingly, no writer before or since had even considered writing from a chicken’s point of view or so beautifully championed the rights of downtrodden hens everywhere.

Perhaps his most famous poem from this period was this one, written when Beakman turned 50.

Stopping by a Nest on a Sunny Day

Whose eggs these are I think I know.
His nest is in the chicken coop though.
My little peep must think it’s queer
To stop without a rooster near.

From the house a rotisserie hums,
Gently cooking former ovums.
The only other sound I hear
Is the clucking of a chicken near.

The oven is warm and wants me to play,
But I have many eggs to lay,
And miles of pecking to do, so I cannot stay.
And miles of pecking to do, so I cannot stay.

As any high school student can tell you, the speaker is reflecting on the warm, inviting promise of death, but in the end knows that it is too soon to die, for many things must still be done in his life, as reflected in the repetition of the final line, mimicking the sound of a chicken feeding.

It is a classic rumination on mortality and longing, and this poem single-handedly changed forever how we view our poultry brothers and sisters.

Beakman grew even more minimalist in the years that followed, referring to poems with an abundance of words as so much “chicken scratching.” This is evidenced in this famous poem, which some unenlightened critics dismissed as “retarded” or “the work of an real jerk-off.” Time has proven, however, that this piece served as the inspiration of the poultry activist movement of the early 1970s.

The Red Hen

So much depends upon
A small red hen,
Clucking in the coop.

Finally, at death’s door, Beakman contemplated the death of a chicken in his last published work, drawing parallels to the fate of all men. Can we assume that his own death touched him most personally?

Do Not Go Gentle Into that Bad Barn

Do not go gentle into that bad barn,
Chickens should scratch and peck at the draw of the ax;
Cluck, cluck against the farmer of the night.

Though wise hens know they will one day be grilled,
Because they laid eggs aplenty while they pecked,
Do not go gentle into that bad barn.

Young peeps, who just emerge from the shell,
Know not of their fate and future garnishes,
And go chirpingly into that bad barn.

And you, dear rooster, crowing at the dawn,
Blaze like a meteor and curse not the blade,
For the farmer needs your cock.

Beakman’s remains will be shoved into sausage casings and dumped in a satchel in the Quaintsville Ye Olde Tyme Square tomorrow. Viewings will be held at 12, 2, 4, 6, 8, and 10, with a sing-along at midnight.