As a purveyor of wisdom and hard fought intelligence wherever and whenever such knowledge can be found, I know a thing or two about the ways of the universe and the thoroughly shaken etch-a-sketch we call reality. Which is why I believe mosquitoes are proof that reincarnation exists. Because how else does it make sense for a creature so maligned by everyone ever to still exist?

Think about it.

You have a creature that’s mindnumbingly frail, with no defenses to speak of that has plagued humanity for time immemorial and yet continue to survive. It flies, yet every time its wings wind up it makes its trademark whine sound that makes the blood pressure of any creature around it with ears jump to aneurysm risking heights. It’s hunted by everything, including natures own F16 the dragonfly, who actually dines on these irritating loiter sacks at every single stage of their development! But yet,

they survive.

Just like all the people around you that somehow have the audacity to continue to breathe! True, correlation does not equal causation, but its a hell of a coincidence. You have telemarketers, influencers, and whoever the hell writes those terrible text message scams who trick your brain into thinking someone genuinely cares about you when you get a notification on your phone.

Word on the street is that God is just and merciful, pretty much across every single pantheon and school of belief. What better way to teach someone the lesson that they might be doing life wrong than to have them come back as mosquito? A blood sucking parasite that no one loves, and who’s only real success is pissing people off before being torn apart unceremoniously by dragonfly mandibles or my hand?

Who needs to suffer through the great cosmic after school detention of Purgatory, the dumpster fire rehab of Gehenna, or Steve Irwin’s (RIP) snake centric fever dream of Naraka? Nah, In this Chicken’s mind it makes way more sense to bypass the Asphodel Meadows and go straight to a mosquitos larval stage where your life can begin, progress, and end being hated by things looking better in grey sweatpants than you do.

I’m uncharacteristically open to being wrong about this, because Ticks and Avocados are second only to Mosquitoes in being ubiquitously disliked. But... maybe the whole reincarnation thing is more complicated than I thought. Ticks because...c’mon, they’re ticks. Anyone who’s ever found one on their furry friend knows the unbridled rage that percolates up from the innards and seeks immediate justice for them daring to try and harm your best friend. Avocados? What, raw, raw, raw, spoiled. They got a life cycle that exists to show you how rare and temporary happiness truly is. Is a great bowl of guacamole worth that much pain?

I don’t think so.

But then again, how do you explain Jumping spiders? If you need proof of some kind of reincarnational purgatorial hierarchy, you need go no further! Out of all their absolutely evil looking breathren, Jumping spiders are the cutest. They absolutely mastered the curious head tilt of all animals that people love, and they eat ugly stuff. Not to mention if you zoom in... I mean really zoooom in...beans.

They have toe beans! Which I think is the strongest argument for why they are clearly high up on the reincarnation redemption arc, and are deserving of a great degree of latitude. Because instead of actively making life worse trying to get people to believe that busty milfs are waiting next door just to talk to you, these little 8 legged champions are out there defending your honor in the dark.

With toe beans!

-RC

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

A straight forward roast with compost-grade energy.
If you can’t contribute to society, at least feed the soil.

-RC

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As a Chicken of obvious culture and profound refinement, I have returned yet again to share the fruits of my explorations through the annals of history. This was not an easy journey mind you, as Doc Brown needed to stop in the 1970s, apparently Sears had a hell of a sale on volumizing hairspray he wanted to take advantage of. Do you know how hard it is to reach 88mph lugging that much cargo?

No.

You don’t.

Suffice to say, sacrifices were made. But do not fret, because those sacrifices were carried by someone else. We might even remember them fondly.

Jobbernowl:

YES. Nothing says you’ve been insulted thoroughly more than a ego thrashing delivered in a kilt. This Scottish timepiece gallivants right out of the 16th century with bollocks and tartans flying. “Jobber” roughly translated to clumsy, and “Nowl” was a vintage term for head. When you weld these two together you get something along the lines of blockhead...Numbskull...Idiot. You may not thank them for haggis, but you sure as hell can offer several sheep bladders full of gratitude to your local Ceann-cinnidh clan ruler type boss guy, for playing a role in bringing one of the most unique ways to call someone an idiot known to creation. When the good Lord said “Let there be light” I bet no one expected the Scots to take it as “Challenge Accepted.” Except maybe the Scots themselves. Party on Shaemus.

Gnashnab:

...I brought this one back with great reluctance. Mainly because it sounds like what happens if your loin cloth chafes your nethers for too long. “Oi! mah tender vittles be a right bit gnashnabbed after runnin all that way!” Not what this 18th century northern English adjective really is intended for. See, it was dedicated to someone who whines alot. One of those miserable dodders who just whittles down everyone else’s patience like that coworker who’s laugh makes you wonder what kind of homunculus married them. Probably why London is on the south coast.

Dunderwhelp:

Boasting a birth certificate from the north England of the 1600s, this one holds a special place in my heart. It isn’t just a way of calling someone an idiot, not at all! It’s specifically fusing “Dunder” meaning idiot, with “Whelp” used for a young weak little snot. Together? You not only have a “Young Idiot” but it can spread like warm cream cheese on your lightly toasted onion bagel into immature, cowardly, and incompetent. When you decide as a culture to save all your spices for taunting your adversaries, the blandness of your cuisine is a foreseeable consequence.

Scullion:

This one has more stamps on its passport than ways to bake bread. Latin to French, French to English, English to some other dialect of English, then the Scots hung out with it for an evening and it woke up somewhere in the Cambrian mountains discovering that traditional English breakfast is in fact a great hangover cure. Starting in the 14th century, it boiled down to calling someone the lowest man in the kitchen, scrubbing pots. And sucking even at that! Like they’re a tallow smudge on the stone floor of the galley. Now I have feelings about this. Idiots are idiots, and the corner is the ideal home for many of the social incompatibles that populate this planet, but I don’t agree with knockin’ people for the jobs they hold. So wielding this one, do it right. Make sure its clear that you see them as the turd hidden in the too tall grass, not as the gardener pushing the mower. Have some class. And always tip your server.

Doc Brown’s calling, apparently the hairspray he picked up is loaded with CFC’s, so the quest for ethical and now environmentally conscious hair care bargains begins anew. So stay tuned for the next installment Rude Chicken Goes Back In Time! I need to pack a lunch. You ever realize lunch boxes are incredibly limiting? Like here, THIS is how much space you have to pack food into for the next block of time. Then you have that slight anxiety when you lock your front door, hoping you packed enough. What if you need to go to the store for extras? Now you have not only your Alf Lunch box but also a shopping bag with it, and people are looking at you funny. Ugh. Finding that perfect balance between social perceptions and your appetite is exhausting.

I’ll just get a backpack.

-RC

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Upon the tablet of the Statue of Liberty, it is said to maybe be written:

Give me your pants, your cardigans, your crumpled and questionably stained pillowcases that have seen things they can’t unsee.

The oversized comforters that would destroy your overpriced washers and make your wallet sore.

Come for our bounty of torn shirts and lost socks, all yours for free.

We may have run out of toilet paper last week, so just use what’s left on the floor for more!

As a Chicken that holds extensive credentials within the realms of literary excellence and haute couture, it should be no big surprise that I appreciate a fashionably turned phrase. The big surprise should be that Lady Liberty herself had the sheer foresight to see and celebrate the virtues of one of the world’s last bastions of performative equality.

The laundromat.

Look, regardless of what rank of the caste system your local laundry facilitator falls in, they have something in common: Machines that are routinely filled with the collected transgressions of the literal unwashed masses, lint traps overflowing with lint comprised with a non-zero percentage of pubes, and the ubiquitous ever present “Out of order” signs.

99% of the time, that sign is on the bathroom. 99% of the time, that bathroom has no paper products. Is it actually broken? 99% of the time, no one really knows.

But what we do know is that fabric softener sheets are a form of olfactory violence. The most domestic of domestic violence inflicted by the unconscious depreciations of the great laundry overlords. Scents like “Generic flower and mild depression” or “Moonshine and Suburban lawn clippings.” Do they even stop static cling? What IS static cling anyway? It’s not like there’s any shag carpet or balloons in the dryer! And I sure as hell don’t do my laundry in socks. I do them barefooted, toenails unclipped, wearing flipflops like a real adult. We don’t do crocs over here. We’ve discussed this. And like crocs, the real disgusting thing about fabric softener is how much it costs. Crappy scented tissue paper that you can buy at $1 dollar stores, or at your super luxe galleria bougie distributors for grotesquely inflated prices. For what? Just to throw in the machine so they can ghost fart their essence into your clothes. You know what works better? A Shower.

Go wash those buns.

Shave that back hair.

Use soap.

Maybe water.

You’ll smell better immediately, so you won’t need to have your laundry perpetuate the lie for you anymore. This isn’t a rant about laundry, my friend. This is a TED Talk about personal accountability. Especially since you better count those quarters. Those little beige bastards will shortchange you every change they get! Give em a $20, and in return they give you $19.75. It doesn’t matter if your wallet has the single $20, or a whole FBI watchlist compound of them. They took that quarter and are going to force you into some Faustian bargain to get it back… maybe. Go fill out a slip and drop it in the wooden box like they tell you, and someone will get back to you eventually. But you know what? They won’t. They’ll make you do a solid sweatshop day’s worth of work for that refund.

We all go to a laundromat at least a few times in our lives. The giant overfilled comforters that’d shred the belts on your washer at home. Those of us who had the landlord who lied about the laundry situation at the apartment. A pile of dirty clothes that prompt more questions about our decision-making skills? Yes. As an entire society we go to the laundromat hoping to come out with less. But if we checked the receipts, we’d find that we don’t just pay the price in money. We pay the price in ourselves.

-RC

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They have the unbridled gall to wonder why no one is having babies to refill the conveyor belt into this late stage capitalistic insane asylum we somehow got way too comfortable calling reality. I’m sorry Daddy, I guess you’re gunna have to find some other chump who’s willing to staple one of your numbered participation bibs onto their little protein sack to keep your meat grinders going, cause it ain’t gunna be this Chicken! Maybe you’d have better luck weaponizing Catholic guilt a little more. But I think they’ve been wising up in recent decades to your grand deception.

This is why dystopia has been such a popular thought experiment. Although these days you don’t need the mental lab coats, just look out your window. Planets a superfund site, we got a legit microplastic continent in the middle of the ocean like some kind of polyethylene Atlantis, and undiagnosed psychopaths with crap in their drawers heading up the whole circus perpetually gaslighting us into it being okay. We’re not seeking entertainment, we’re trying to read the tea leaves to try and figure out what flavor of dystopia is coming down the pipe.

Are we lookin’ at distant post apocalyptia Mad Max desert style with sand and dust in all our nooks and crannies? Who needs payday loans when you’ll get some extra roach tempura for giving your friendly local warlord your eyelids. Those filthy leather harnesses are also incredibly flattering on the hips. Wink

Maybe we’ll luck out and get the Fallout one, where its either a quick death to retro-futuristic Americana bumping from Mad Dog, or if you’re not one of the former elites who ended up in the literal eugenics flavored microcosms of the Vaults, you can maybe join the Brotherhood of Steel and fail upwards into stability like Maximus. Which kudos to him I guess. That loser still didn’t get the Perfect piece of cake.

But why stop here? Lets swing the other way! I’d do just fine in a techno corporate seasoned end game. We’re already used to crap wages with no benefits, and the super rich building bunkers. Is it that much different if the bunkers are now skyscraping skyscrapers? We’ll have to deal with organ repossession, corpse protein reprocessing, and cybernetic augmentations passed out by both TEMU and Tesla alike. That’s not too far off anyway. Plus there’s always the option of interstellar travel Cowboy Bebop style. Who wouldn’t want to travel the cosmos battling space pirates over extra extra dehydrated pack of Ramen?! This one might be the best one overall. Mr. Silverhand was no saint, but any reality that has a form of Keanu Reeves in it can’t be all that bad.

Whatever it ends up looking like, the future’s looking pretty rough for us ladies and gentlemen. Whether the end comes in the form of Nuclear destruction, Technocratic domination, Zombies, or alien invasion, we’re probably cooked. So eat that shrinkflated ice cream sandwich, do your kegels so the probes don’t do any lasting damage, but my Brother in Christ remember to return those shopping carts. Neo might be watching.

-RC

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

A creepy, funny roast for the overly sniffy and socially questionable.
Handshake. Sniff. Repeat. Your FBI file must be thick.

- RC

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The proverbial Man has pissed on the social contract in more ways than a urinal at an Irish pub on St Patty’s day in Boston.

No pensions.

Gotta work OT to get an Extra Value Meal at McDonald’s.

Pay a mortgage payment for health insurance.

Just to pay another mortgage payment if you need it.

Social security is waving “Bon Voyage” as it sails away with every other part of the so called American Dream.

All WE got is each other.

All YOU got is a dry toilet bowl with a skid mark between your ears.

We’ve seen your handiwork, you walking nightmare.

Leaving your shopping carts in parking spaces.

On the median, cuddled up against trees.

Out in the middle of the road, jacking up traffic.

Catching wind and flying across the parking lot to dent our doors at Mach 3.

It takes 10 seconds out of your life to do the rest of us a solid and bring it back to the pen.

I did not realize such levels of self important laziness were even possible.

You probably have made a tradition of love bombing your toilets because everyone else is tired of your shit.

It’s probably for the best that you moved out of your folks’ house.

I’m sure they got tired of changing the subject whenever you came up.

Shopping carts have a tough job.

They are built for order.

Structure.

Efficiency.

They aren’t built for your entitled madness.

Bringing a full cart to the self check out.

Saying “No one wants to work anymore.” because there’s a line of your archetype clogging up the customer service desk.

Standing in the middle of the aisle while you corner the poor underpaid employee to flap your pretentious jowls about the rich chocolate Ovaltine not being gluten free, like it’s his fault.

You don’t deserve the joys of consuming the

Rich.

Chocolate.

Ovaltine.

You deserve to be trauma bonded to off brand Pop Tarts.

Or the high protein knock off versions of Cinnamon Toast Crunch

When the zombie apocalypse happens?

I hope you find a home with Negan.

Go ahead and not return a shopping cart in HIS parking lot and see what happens.

-RC

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You ever watch those awesome Ninja assassin movies where assassins seem to melt out of the shadows, dispatch death and then vanish just as fast? Everyone is left (those alive anyway) mystified! True embodiments of the merciless nature of the dark. They hit on some kind of primal morbid interest with not the dark itself, but what hides within it. But whenever in the story arc you come across some ancient O.G. assassin it’s like they still move as if there’s not a lifetime of bad knees and aching joints?

I don’t care how much acupuncture or green tea you consume Sensei, but I’m calling shenanigans on you, your weeping willow eyebrows, and the idea your hip flexors are gunna cooperate long enough for you to strap on your jika-tabi.

As a Chicken that’s well acquainted with the mystical arts of darkness and the unseen, I know what I’m talking about. After all, the extremely well known saying “Silent blades speak the loudest truths” was coined with yours truly in mind. I don’t like to brag about it, but its rare that assassins make it to old age. The money is good, the risk is high, and honestly? After a lifetime of the intercontinental hijinks many of us go through, the lure of a peaceful life is irresistible.

Then there’s all the updates. Seriously? Every year they come out with more and differently colored cables, last job I did I had to call technical support because they made each individual key of the keypad Bluetooth enabled. Who wants to spend time arguing with Brivo or ADT’s support line when you could be in Florida driving your bespoke golf cart with 17” rims to Costco?

Exactly.

Do you really think my geriatric Senpai is up to date on his training manuals? Absolutely not. He can’t even read the back of his ensure bottle, and you think he can navigate his way through an unguarded garden hose into your living room? Silence is our ultimate weapon, so once your full shinobi outfit starts incorporating New Balance sneakers and velcro, it’s time to stop.

Getting caught now is just embarrassing. If only Hollywood was respected the viewer enough to not stretch realism so far. It’s just how they taught us in “Corporate Ninjutsu 101”, you gotta manage expectations. Throwing the endless stream of Shuriken and darts out of the shadows is great, but these days it’s expensive as hell! It’d be just as if not more impressive to show off the Art of the Silent Ramen, where you eat a whole bowl of ramen without slurping or getting any broth in your beard. Or demonstrating the deadly Dandelion Strike to rid your driveway of weeds.

For me? I got out of the game awhile ago. It just wasn’t fun anymore. You’d show up at a job, ready to go to work and henchmen would get excited! Legit excited! Like you were a magician showing up to make balloon animals and make doves fly out of your tekko, then have the huevos to look disappointed when you took them out without a katana. Instead of the cold numbness I should have felt, when someone’s disappointed in you it just... hits different.

Oh well, life goes on, and for this Chicken there have been many adventures since then. But just so we’re clear: Once a ninja, always a ninja, and for your boy RC?

“Every soul has a price, but I take coupons.”

-RC

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

A damp and fishy personal insult roast for the overly fragrant.
If your scent is giving “aquarium after dark,” it’s time to rebrand.

-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 savage roast for the kind of face that turns off motion-sensor lights.
Not saying you’re ugly, but your best angle is “missing.”

-RC

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Landfills are like cultural Alzheimer’s for us folk. Take trash, throw away trash, pick up trash in giant surprisingly well contained vehicles, sort trash, and eventually slop our gathered slop away in a hole, and then layer tons of dirt on top of it. Stick few non paper straws in it and let it sit for awhile until enough people forget, then build a housing development on it with water that shall eternally faintly smell and taste like canned beef stroganoff from 1974.

Though I am a particularly over bold and commonly brave to my own detriment kind of Chicken, this doesn’t really bother me, after all, what else IS dirt good for? If the good Lord didn’t want us to bury things, then the good Lord shouldn’t have given us dirt. See the Entry on sandcastles, which I haven’t written yet, but when I do I can assure you it would behoove you to remember this entry. But what are our other options?

Burn it? So we can have the air quality of mango chutney? I guess, we already do this, but what if we did it more? Like China, until they didn’t, and when they didn’t they really didn’t. But they once did a lot more, and it was gross.

Recycle it? This would only work if we actually committed to it fully, which humans, never commit to anything fully. Except maybe war and finding flatulence funny, and those that make the ludicrous claim that they don’t, are broken people who deserve our collective pity, and maybe scorn depending on the severity of their individual severity. But on recycling, we make plastic that isn’t designed to be recycled. We make disposable things purposefully undisposable. Why would we do this other than self sabotaging pettiness?

Composting? I guess, but who would we hire to go and rake the compost? I mean... yea people would do it, but no one wants to pay them the wage to make that job make sense. Shit we haven’t upped the minimum wage since literally 2009, and you think some waste management company is going to pay people something decent to rake our gathered okra trimmings and kumquat seeds? Nah. Especially not when you risk getting lit on fire. Not even compost likes composting, cause if you do it right, the shit self immolates. Like its taking the ultimate form of protest against itself, and you want to suggest this as a valid idea? And hire poor Ralph to go rake it for $7.25 and make him a martyr?

If you’re in a rich country you could pay other countries to buy it, yea we do that already. Think about how stupid that is. Sending great barges of absolutely loaded pampers across the Atlantic to some other place to... sit there. I lack the sophistication to explain why its wrong, but the idea of a pile of baby poop packed diapers hanging around a palm tree is existentially depressing, and you handing me a ten spot doesn’t make me feel better.

So lets go back home right? Where we can take our shoes off, put on some Duck tales reruns and pop out some pizza rolls and an ecto cooler juice box to make life seem better. Easy enough, Pizza rolls come in cardboard boxes too, which biodegrade themselves if you throw them in a hot shower for long enough, plus pro tip: showering in mushy cardboard is great for softening that tough feet skin. Then you throw out the juice box and go about your day.

Throw that juice box right on out, into your kitchen standard 13 gallon trash can, with no lid, or one of those swishy lids that no one ever likes to touch since its delicately fondled everything the family has thrown out for the past forever since it was purchased at your generic big box store. Leaving even accidental touches feel like a def con 5 event. Which was terrible, but it was good terrible. Like how skinning your knees on pavement, slamming your nuts on the crossbar of a bike, or accidentally getting a 3am mouthful of spoiled milk when you zombie walk to the kitchen and drink from the carton, all serve to make you more ready for life, and give needed perspective.

Until some well intentioned gong farmer decided to invent the laziest invention beyond the bidet. For 4 AA batteries, you too can not touch the sins of your past, the automatic trash can lid. The sensor detects you, it opens, you drop your trash in, it closes. Seems so simple, so innocent, yet that is exactly why its so insidious. No step lever, no secretly disgusting swishy cover, just cold efficiency. That makes you less as a person. One that Celine Dion would never sing about.

It doesn’t make your house better! It makes it a silken vortex straight to mediocrity. The dog and Grandma can still get into it, now you owe it a monthly battery tithe, and the only blessing you get is some meager ration of ridiculous self satisfaction that you’re better than someone else. That’s not even a valid soap box, its a shitty cardboard Lever 2000 soap box, that biodegrades in the shower equally shittily. Or even better, it gets slow, or the sensor breaks like everything else these days. So now you’re trying to toss your Totino’s pizza roll box away and instead of doing it’s job, it now makes you wait for it.

You just wanna toss your trash, meanwhile you’re forced to make awkward eye contact with it while you wait a gilded age for the lid to take its sweet time opening, when if you had just sacked up (metaphorically for the ladies present) you coulda thrown it into the rancor pit in the kitchen and went on about your day without any karmic guilt as your companion for the rest of the day.

For future reference: Check your local ordinances. Get a burn pit in the backyard.

Or a bigger shower.

-RC

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Now with 500% more Muckspout! That’s right ladies and gents! This week Rude Chicken hitchhikes on the Tardis, and we’re going back in time again to revisit some of the sassiest crap flinging word assemblages and bring them Back to the Future for a second look. Because time is relative, and the need to tactfully blow out someones emotional scaffolding is eternal. Lets get to it shall we?

Coxcomb:

Juvenile giggles betray the subtle declarations of our collective immaturity aside, this noun based insult was born in the 16th century. Referring specifically to the rooster like hat that Jesters wore. Because even with their stupid too tight shoes and even stupider too tight pants that looked like embodiment of parachute pants with performance anxiety, everyone was still a critic. Coxcomb over time started to mean a “vain, self obsessed man” that had a penchant for strutting around like a peacock out of a printer with no ink. To be full of ones self with nothing to back it up essentially. Which sounds like every man ever who wears skinny jeans but skips leg day.

Muckspout:

Jumping straight out of the womb of the 17th to 18th centuries, this tidy little gem was used to describe someone who just couldn’t stop themselves from unleashing foul language and obscenities. We’re not talking filth, flarn, or your generic store brand poppycock. No, this person just upends verbal portapotties with 90 degree August heat all over the dinner table. Which in my opinion is less an insult but a virtue, maybe even, a small mercy. Because instead of focusing on your inability to serve palatable food, the other guests are stunned into total silence. I wonder why that baby is crying. Moving on.

Snoutband:

Straight out of the early modern period this one refers to the prick who’s always trying to dominate the conversation with their personal brand of inane drivel. Constantly interrupting or talking over everyone else. It seems even then people dealt with people who had a profound lack of manners, or were so terrifyingly insecure they just couldn’t help themselves from turning everyone around them into collateral damage from their self aggrandizement. “Oh, I’ve got a worse story than that,” “I know where this is going,” and the old standby “Well actually…” are infuriating now. Imagine having some drummed up coxcomb of a fop with his too tight pants, and breath that could strip paint going “Verily, thou art mistaken, good sir” or “Marry, I hold a tale more woeful by far, and it concerneth mine own noble person.” You know, I’m beginning to understand why there were so many wars back then, because I’m about ready to throw on some heavy plate and lay siege to something just writing this. If I show up to Thanksgiving dinner with a warhammer, just let me cook ok?

Holiday dinners festooned with arguments settled by glorious melee combat aside, I love canned cranberry sauce. Jellied or whole berry, they’re both equally exquisite. No one shows up to dinner hoping someone made it from scratch. No one worth staying in regular contact with anyway. Just lump that person in with the strange uncle no one feels comfortable around.

Anyway, this muckspout in particular has other things to do.

Check y’all later.

-RC

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Chaos and Consequences:

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.

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

Ancient Insults for Modern Idiots:

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.

Rude Chicken Unleashed:

This 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

Tales From The Dumpster Fire:

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!

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You have clearly decided to experience life as a tapestry of societal rot and depravity. Utilizing your privy has enlightened me to the truest substance of your nature:

A harbinger of moral decay, the pure, unadulterated incarnation of cultural effluvium.

In other words:

If you’re one of the degenerates who exits the bathroom, leaving a nearly empty toilet paper roll in your wake?

You probably even look yourself in the eyes in the mirror and think you’re a good person. If I may, would you mind if I offered a humble but highly pertinent course correction?

Good.

Cause I wasn’t asking.

Why don’t we start by showing us on the doll where the world hurt you bad enough to justify going full scorched earth on the rest of us in what is supposed to be the most neutral of neutral grounds?

Replacing the roll is just what you do.

Leaving a sip of milk in the milk jug is bad. Not returning the shopping cart is worse. Not replacing the roll should get you dropped off at a Texas PTA meeting, in a furry costume.

There is no gray area here.

Ana and Christian ain’t coming out to litigate the 50 shades of mitigating factors at play here. This is a matter of divine right and wrongness, and Jesus is probably gunna sit this one out. Cause even the New Covenant didn’t cover sins this great.

Imagine being the poor sod who’s following you? Desperate, awkward, hopefully not a guest in your house. Actually no. Hopefully they are, because it’s the justice you definitely won’t understand. But you sure as hell will deserve.

Because those 900 GSM decorative towels you drone on and on about? They just entered the chat. But don’t you worry that empty lil head of yours. I’ll make sure to hang them back up when I’m done.

And light the Champagne Smoke Over Aged Brie candle you got on the counter. Cause after all, the only thing that goes better than this shit and your bullshit? Is some cheese and wine.

And you’d be getting off lucky. This kind of warfare is usually met with tribunals.

They said the revolution won’t be televised.

I just never expected ground zero would be in your bathroom.

Go fall off a chair.

-RC

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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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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.

Subscribe now