Disgusting.

If Buddha was still around he’d buddhist palm himself to the Ancient One to pick a new timeline to incarnate in. Walking into the supermarket, you’re immediately assaulted by too bright lights, too happy colors, terrible music piped in to mask the depression of the indentured servants masquerading as employees just trying to pay their bills. Sensory overload of the highest order. However, none knew their C-suite branded folly, no matter how concealed would be undone by yours truly.

Rude Chicken.

Because as a chicken well versed in the ways of the science and alchemy, also fluent in both Entish and Grootianese. I know the evidence of barbaric and fiendish science when I come across it in the wild. I don’t blame you, my beloved audience and peers for missing it. How could you? You were simply trying to figure out what to spend your hard earned coin on for dinner, or a summer treat to keep the kids happy. Possibly make a refreshing non virgin smoothie. How could you possibly know that laid out before you in their grand cardboard pens, sat the most evident evidence?

The seedless watermelon.

A botanical eunuch, cursed to wander creation with no purpose, no function, no.. raison d’etre beyond being delicious! All other living things no matter how humble have more functions. Yet through human intervention we are cursed with witnessing the suffering of seedless grapes, seedless pineapples, seedless oranges and bananas! We’ve driven our thumb in the eye of nature, telling it why don’t you take a seat Grandma, WE are running the show now! No more joy or purposeful frolicking through the forest. I know they don’t have legs, but who needs legs when you had dreams. Have you ever seen the dream of the seedless navel orange?! Beautifully tragic is what it is. To see such longing depicted entirely in tangelo and vermilion.

Reproduction is the last thing that should be taken for granted, and yet here we are! Sex, seed, propagation, fragmentation, budding, whatever nastiness trees do that leaves residue over my windshield every damn spring, without having the decency to offer us a moist towelette. Trees, always thinking they’re so high and mighty. Having the nerve of growing so damn tall and just dropping shit on us all year round. Nuts, leaves, seeds, those weird seed pods, and branches falling randomly crushing stuff below them with impunity. I know they’re the “lungs of the world” and whatever, but they let that moniker go to their tall leafy heads.

What have you done for me lately? Shade? I can get an umbrella. Firewood? I mean a lot of things burn. Oxygen? Pfft! overrated. Air is mostly nitrogen anyway, how hard can it be to replace oxygen?! I’ll just grow more ferns. Humble, green, and not so over dramatic. Unlike the Willow Tree, which if My Bloody Valentine was a tree, it’d be that. With less eyeliner, and way more silent crying, which is the worst kind. But I digress.

Because I am tired of ignoring the cries from the produce aisle. Usually front loaded, immediately visible upon entry into that den of depression aka: The supermarket. But this battle needs to be taken on at the source. Farmers, who once were known as the best of us. Salt of the earth types. Hardworking, hay bale throwing strong, up and down with the sun types. I can only pray that they have not fallen to the vicissitudes of modernity. That among them a resistance is fermenting, ready to emancipate our agricultural allies, and lead them, root and stem into the promised land. Or like Land-o-lakes or somewhere. That place seemed pretty wholesome.

-RC

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Rude Chicken Unleashed is an unhinged and absurd series of dark humor roasts, and savage insults for you to enjoy, collect, whatever. Nothing is taken seriously here, dig in, and have a good time.

A darkly funny insult for the emotionally gassy and cosmically underperforming.

-RC

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When I started Rude Chicken I had no idea what I was doing or what it would even be beyond a collection of funny insults and roast comedy. Playing around with the idea, I eventually realized I could turn RC into a full blown character, so I wrote a few short stories with him gallivanting around a medieval fantasy setting then narrated it.

Feedback is welcome, if it gets popular I’m down to make a season 2!

-J

Rude Chicken Unleashed is a series of short roasts in video format, that range from the dumb to clever to savage and incendiary. Sometimes narrated, sometimes with music. This is for those who enjoy roast comedy. No set schedule for releases, and I don’t email them. Numbered for ease of navigation, and of course, feedback is always welcome.

-J

Yea, Life’s a Joke, and You’re the Punchline!

-RC

I, Rude Chicken, have a lot to say about a lot, and Chaos and Consequences is where I open my head for your existential enrichment. Here, you’ll find the official record of my streams of consciousness, rants, and advocacies for the men, women, and others similarly situated, who share the burden of existing in an increasingly nonsensical world. Often without witness.

Now I’ve been called unhinged, mad, and all sorts of inappropriate words with variable amounts of consonants and syllables. Haters come in all shapes and sizes, all looking for a piece of me. Which is okay. Because all my quarters come in dark meat, and I am juicy as hell.

Sometimes I’m going to roast you.

Sometimes you might learn something.

Sometimes you may even agree with me.

Because why wouldn’t you? You’re here right? So clearly you have excellent taste and discernment. After all, despite being a cannibalistic prey animal, we Chickens have done pretty well for ourselves.

And taking that into consideration? That makes us the highest common denominator in contemporary civilization today.

Browse away, and keep off the grass.

-RC

Ps. New stuff posts here once or twice a week.

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As a Chicken who has traversed the space time continuum and braved the fickle winds of both fame and fortune, I know a thing about many things. Which I started this series to share with you, being the charitable sort that I am known to be. But due to overwhelming demand, I have decided to gradually include the stories surrounding my discoveries as this first of the month monthly telling unfolds.

What discoveries?

Why, only the things nearest and dearest to my heart of course:

Insults, lost to time and entropy, from around this pretty blue planet and across recorded history...give or take the last 800 years or so. For as long as the strong could throw rocks, the not as rock throwing proficient learned to throw words. But as what was lost, must inevitably be found, and yours truly, Rude Chicken—the intrepid adventurer, intends to be there, ready to preserve this precious knowledge for all.

-RC

Hey, I’m Jon the writer behind Rude Chicken. So I had this idea about resurfacing old insults, and having RC kinda tool around with them. What started with a list, gradually turned into RC becoming more of a character, with history and an arc.

RC: HEY! First of all, I’ve always been more of a character. I didn’t need your help for that, second of all, I have a spelljammer, not an arc.

J: I mean, you were kind of a character, you pretty much just ranted about stuff and insulted people. And you do not have a spelljammer.

RC: That is still a character, and if you consult the image above, I clearly have a spelljammer.

J: Yea but you were never fleshed out. You literally just yelled insane things and got irrationally angry about trivial things. And as of right now you do NOT have a spelljammer. You’re a borderline narcissistic chicken who is learning how to be less of an ass via osmosis.

RC: Do not dare presume to lecture me about osmosis. I am a chemist of legendary repute, and my biology street cred would crush you like a thousand Greek women making wine. Which I know, because I was teaching Aristotle how to play Connect 4 before he even considered chickens and eggs. RC: And I have a spelljammer.

J: You don’t even like wine, and as I said you have no spelljammer, and you don’t start traveling through time until Chapter 3. You also have never met Aristotle.

RC. I do, I do, and I did.

J: So anyway, feel free to start from the beginning if you’re here for the historical insults. Jump in on Chapter 3 if you want to get to know Rude Chicken in this format.

J: You don’t, don’t, and didn’t. At least not yet. Though having you deal with Mindslayers might make for an interesting adventure.

RC: Ah ha! So I will, and shall! Perfect. I can’t wait to pick out the cosmetics. Do you think shag carpet holds up well with inter-dimensional travel?

J: Not sure, check with Doc Brown when you see him next.

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A bingeable collection of absurd spoken word stories featuring sentient vending machines, goat cults, cursed food, emotionally unstable furniture, and one very unlucky sock.

All 10 episodes of absolutely unnecessary storytelling.

This is Season 1 of Rude Chicken, and yes — it only gets worse from here.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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If you guys like this series and want more, let me know, I’ll happily work on season 2!

A ridiculous tale of vending vengeance, missed snacks, and the machine that decided it had had enough.

I asked for cheese puffs. It gave me trauma.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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A sneeze-filled spiritual fable about divine intervention, sinus pressure, and pollen-based penance.

Turns out divine blessings come with seasonal side effects.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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A disturbingly cozy tale about lost laundry, dangerous knowledge, and the sock that saw too much.

It went missing. Then it came back... knowing things. Horrible, unhelpful things.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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A mildly unsettling story about coordinated goats, poorly timed rituals, and snack-based sacrifices.

They weren’t just goats. They were... coordinated. And that was the real horror.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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A dryly ridiculous tale of one unwelcome goat, intense staring, and judgment passed with zero words.

He doesn’t speak. He just judges. Loudly. With his eyes.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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A chaotic tale of medical misfires, flirtatious lighting fixtures, and aggressive plumbing-related trauma.

All I wanted was silence. What I got was five proposals, a jealous lamppost, and PTSD from plumbing.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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A bizarre maritime fable featuring mermaids with no boundaries, a coconut with terrible luck, and extremely questionable humidity.

Mermaids are real. Boundaries are not.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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A ridiculous spoken word tale of nautical failure, questionable seafood, and a captain whose only compass pointed to chaos.

There are legends of the sea… and then there’s whatever this is.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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A short story about a questionable king, a moist throne, and a legacy that nobody wanted but everyone remembers.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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A surreal dark humor story about a cursed toenail, a ghost horse, and a town obsessed with a goat named Kevin.

Welcome to Tales from the Dumpster Fire, the only historical archive built entirely of the many misadventures of Rude Chicken. Expect marginally unhinged stories of poor decisions, goats of various alignments, and true love (bench style). None of this was supposed to happen this way, but here we are. So stay seated, because this isn’t just a story. Its lore.

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Why are you contacting me?

I just woke up to 6 calls, 8 texts, and 81 toxically over excited happy emojis.

I just worked 16 days in a row for you Silvia.

I can’t feel my face, and my feet have left death threats written inside my work shoes.

I’m not sure what day it is, and I’m pretty sure my couch is cheating on me with the throw pillows.

But you want me to give you my only day off, Silvia?

How about you... you know, try something new?

Like... I don’t know.

Hire people actually qualified to do the job?

Treat them right so they don’t quit?

Pay us enough that we can actually live?

You somehow managed to rebrand Jim Crow as “competitive wages.” The mental kung fu you had to do to justify that would make even Shaolin jealous.

Your turnover rate is so high that WWI trench lines would like a word.

Between the mandations and forced OT, I even saw Michael Myers cosplaying as Harriet Tubman trying to help some of us escape.

I guess even horror has its limits.

Silvia, you come in late every day.

Bright eyed and bushy tailed, like you get your 8 hours of sleep.

I bet you even have hobbies.

You got your trademark “Venti half-caf soy caramel macchiato, upside down, extra shot, 3 pumps vanilla, 2 pumps hazelnut, light foam, oat milk drizzle, 120 degrees.”

In your monogrammed gold leaf cup.

But that “S” on the front should stand for Sycophant, because you forgot all about us who push that millstone to keep the front office happy.

The only thing you seem to remember how to do is find air while being shoulder deep up the brass’s ass.

I’m guessing you must have some kinda periscope in there too, since you wrote up Melinda last week for coming back from lunch two minutes too early.

You keep talking about how the next orientation class is full.

Full of what, tributes?

You hired fifteen kids who are gunna quit right after orientation.

Especially when they find out half of what you promised them was fake news.

And the other half was just cute carrots dangled in front of them while you march them into the meat grinder.

I’d say may the odds ever be in their favor, but conscience won’t let me detach that far from reality.

If I was you, I’d probably cancel my gym membership.

Cause when the torches and pitchforks come, you’re gunna get plenty of exercise.

And Dr. Frankenstein up in the front office?

If you hear someone yelling something about Sparta or something...

Just close your eyes.

-RC

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You ever get kicked in the face by the person in front of you climbing a ladder?

Me either, but it feels like that when you’re improvising the lost Buddha’s Palm technique just to wash your hands after ruining the air quality in that public bathroom.

How have we come this far for basic hand hygiene to be this out of reach?

I shouldn’t have to be a water bending savant just to get that little sensor to recognize there are a pair of thoroughly sullied and besmirched mitts in front of you, begging to pay at least a little homage to cleanliness.

It’s bad enough that you probably don’t have any soap in the dispenser.

Have me rapidly bopping the top of it like I’m absently waving goodbye to myself in the mirror, because the miasma I created slowly wafts out of that stall.

A great and wise person once said that “you are immune to your own brand.”

That is absolutely true.

Unless your brand doesn’t have a name at all and is just expressed through a biohazard symbol.

Taking inspiration from Prince’s autobiography.

As if the term “Dine and Dash” took a semi logical and somehow karmic detour, culminating in “Poop and Die.”

There’s only so much time and energy we can devote to this before you’re forced to question your own mortality. There’s no shame in running.

Who knew that hand sanitizer was created as a backup for faulty sink faucet sensors?

-RC

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No one likes going to the dentist. Look at the lengths we go to in effort to avoid getting our proverbial tires rotated at the mouth mechanic! Teeth brushing, teeth flossing, mouth washing, tongue scraping, and the hardware upgrading we do every day, sometimes multiple times a day, just to not have to sit in that deceptively comfortable looking lounge chair.

That chair is likely the greatest lie we’ve been sold since if we didn’t pay attention in algebra we’d never amount to anything. Which in retrospect is kind of a pun, if you think about it. But aside from putting the pun in punishment, let’s drill down to the root of the matter, and see what pulp we can extract. The sum of all fears: The Dentist.

In the old days, we just tore our broken teeth out. We knew we weren’t sharks with their infinite rows of endlessly replaceable meat cutters, yet we did it anyway. We used rocks, bow drills, hammers, strings around doors, Cats the Broadway play, and anything that Jake Paul is involved in. Nary a calm voiced white coat around. And for the record, what kind of sadist is capable of speaking so damn calmly while making you wish the bright ass light they shoved in your face was an entrance to the hereafter?! Hannibal Lecter. Maybe Pinhead. Either way, this is the type of “person” we’ve been conditioned to pay for help with our dental woes.

The drill doesn’t have to be that high pitched. Sounding like they gave 600mg of adderall to a micro machine, then having the gall to ask “Did that hurt?” If you say “yes”, that mask covers their smile of ecstasy, if you say “no?” it’s challenge accepted, now suck on this straw while I queue up my next red carnival of jollies for you. Hygienist looking on like hell’s designated cheerleader. Ready to polish away whatever sins the grand master committed to your oral architecture with mint and if you’re lucky bubble gum flavored paste. They used to have a dozen flavors of peace offerings for us. Now? One. Rarely, 2. I’d blame inflation, but I refuse to believe it would strike the proletariat in such a vulnerable spot. This is why dental is never natively bundled with health insurance. Big insurance knows what’s going on here, maybe they’re even in on it, just without the Valium scented candles in the back offices.

Heraclitus, a great n glorious philosopher once said, “Everything flows, and nothing abides, everything gives way, and nothing stays fixed.” Which is a perfect description of my temper. Because we can fit a proton through the anus of matter itself, but we have yet to discover how to make fillings that don’t fail, or how to tell our teeth to fix themselves. Then expect me to believe that this diesel powered tooth brush with bluetooth somehow clears tartar worse than a chewing sticks still used by the Hadza tribespeople. Do they even get tartar? Every time one of them smile it’s like the 2nd coming of Christ.

Speaking of Christ, why is it that dental pain hits so different? Who thought it was a good idea to give every single tooth a red telephone straight to the pain center in the brain? A priority line that’s got a ring so obnoxiously loud it shuts down every other bodily function simultaneously? Not only is it rude, it’s selfish. Why did God decide to make my broken femur a 2nd class citizen to my 2nd molar? I don’t know if that’s blasphemy, but you know what? It is. Imagine the parachute not opening and your body laying in the shape of a new age mandala, but instead of good vibes all you’re thinking about is your broken incisor. Yes. I’d be in shock too.

Sure, you’re probably thinking “Uhm... RC, you don’t have any teeth. You’re a chicken.” And you’d be right. I don’t have teeth. But for a moment, I had empathy. Why’re you trying to take that away from me? You’re insufferable.

-RC

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