You ever find yourself sitting somewhere minding your own business, cooking up some fresh creamed corn or leisurely making balloon animal molds out of tin foil, and it dawns on you that God might just… really hate humanity? I’m not talking about your run of the mill, generic hate. I’m implying a major, deeply held, real like… primordial kind of non plussing here. You don’t got to look that far to see the justification for my reasoning. Just go to your local overpriced grocery store. Order some buffalo wings. Get some over salted reduced sodium chicken noodle. Or mingle among the other wilted vegetables hanging out in the graveyard of the produce drawer in your fridge. You’ll see it.

No?

Lemme help.

It’s the damn Celery.

Celery. Beloved by everyone who’s ever tried to make less of themselves, this stalky tree like abomination stands as definitive proof that the divine holds us in contempt. Its watery, tastes like lapses in judgement, and looks like it belongs growing out of bat guano in the caves underneath Weight Watchers.

It’s an anemic green fraud. Dares to stand from its soap box proclaiming its low calorie virtues like some kind of vegetal Evangelist! Only to find that very soap box is full of ranch dressing, peanut butter, and raisins. Sure, it may be negative 5 calories a serving, but it doesn’t stay that way long after it’s bathed in all the high calorie accoutrements to make it worth eating in the first place. Peanut butter, creamed cheese, blue cheese, …Ranch. Sure, it goes well with ranch. Everything goes well with ranch. And not everything has you picking strings out of your teeth for days afterwards, like you just went to an all you can eat thong buffet.

Mmmm.

Peppery.

Either way every day you try to make it work in your daily culinary itinerary and succeed is like a pyrrhic victory. You successfully lie to yourself about how good you’re doing, while proving God right about how insufferable you are. Imagine standing before St. Peter having to defend yourself for your sins against the firmament because you voluntarily ate and enjoyed celery? You think ants on a log is gunna save you? No.

So repent and maybe start eating carrots. Look, I don’t profess to know how any of this works alright? I’m just saying that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and everyone can use a little extra beta-carotene.

Bon Appetit.

-RC

Subscribe now

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 darkly funny insult for the kind of person who eats pizza like it’s a filet mignon.
If food had feelings, this would be a personal attack.

Subscribe now

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

A devastatingly personal insult roast about losing a fight… and custody of your own dignity.
At that point, you’re just a roommate with fewer rights.

Subscribe now

Wine.

You were probably expecting an over inflated hyperbolic extravaganza of a title for something like wine weren’t you? Well I’m sure the wine was too, and I don’t think it deserves it. Anything that has that much in common with a trash bag filled with fermenting fruit scraps and cough syrup a la prison hooch needs a reality check and its chair kicked out from under it. It ain’t that special.

Pretty bottles, with grandiose arbitrary scoring numbers, and pretentious labels and “flavor” profiles. Please, get over yourself. “Black Cherry, with hints of chocolate, licorice, shoe leather and splintered parquet flooring.”

Delightful.

Have you actually read the descriptions of these bottled frauds? At least box wine has the humility to store itself in a box with a spigot. It knows what it’s there for, it knows its purpose. It didn’t show up to the work site in a turtle neck with horn rimmed glasses and penny loafers with no socks! Box wine showed up ready to rock in Doc Martens and Cargo shorts with 4 hammers and the certainty that everything including your cat Linus was a nail. See, box wine doesn’t take prisoners, it takes livers. Slowly.

Sure wine can be cooked and baked with, sauced with, drunk, probably bathed with if you were in a particularly esoteric mood, and even shaken and sprayed all over people at weddings, parties, and funerals(less acceptable.) But at the end of the day, it’s a beverage, that made not having clean water survivable. Now we’ve refined it to vineyards, and names so pretentious it can cause allergic reactions if you go too deep into Napa Valley, or the parts of France that somehow copyrighted their grapes. Grapes that are special because they grow on hills with a 45% grade instead of a 47% grade, and their handlers are all named Fern. With a long history of being handled by people named Fern. All birthed from Fern the Greater.

Does it need all this?! No. At its core its a drink, not a litmus test for what echelon of society you belong to, nor does it need all this hype. Imagine if someone went on about which fast food restaurants have the best milkshakes? Giving them Parker scores, and talking about how “Well Arby’s milkshakes are clearly superior to McDonalds, AND their machine works far more frequently with less taste of cleaning product residue.” That person would be laughed all the way back to the colorful ball pit they crawled out of.

Oddly enough, let’s return wine to the corner where it belongs, so other people can think about what it did, and discuss wine coolers instead.

Wine coolers. I don’t know why they are called wine coolers. They are not wine, nor are they literal coolers, though they do travel well in them. They are cooler than wine, sure. technically, but still hardly a boast when everything is cooler than wine. Even PBRs and Natty Ice, because the culture surrounding those are far less insufferable, and trucker hats are always more stylish than too tight slacks and matte long sleeves that leave you looking like an ornate No.2 pencil.

Ultimately, wine coolers taste like sugary sodas, with probably too much—way too much in the way of color additives. And you can enjoy both on the couch, or outside, whereas wine requires the prerequisite lofty sigh of “Ahh...” then examining the bottle of arrogantly fermented fruit for descriptors, finding none, then listening to the host or guest blather on about things people only pretend to care about so they don’t feel left out among the others pretending to care.

China has it right. They pour cola into their wine. You have legit schools and degrees where sommeliers learn to be better at selling overpriced wine to people trying to broadcast their wealth. While the most populous country on the planet pours Coca-Cola into that same glass and calls it delicious.

I don’t pretend to draw any specific thing from that, I’ll just say that I find the whole idea:

Refreshing.

-RC

Subscribe now

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 mild and visually insulting fashion insult for the thrift-curious and lamp-adjacent.
You don’t wear outfits—you inherit them.

Subscribe now

Personally, I enjoy going places and shelling out hundreds of dollars to be disappointed too. Most people its the gym, the plastic surgeon, or dating. For me? Its the furniture store.

I hate futons. These little half blood muggles try to sell themselves as sensible alternatives when for whatever reason you’re not sure if you need a bed or a couch. If only you could have had this degree of decisiveness when picking out your wardrobe. Now both you and your living room have more in common with potatoes than just both having eyes that can’t see.

Tracks though, to go with the asses that wont be able to feel either, cause look.

You either get a giant “mattress” full of whatever left over filling they can find from the slaughter floor of the Care Bear slaughter house, or you get some penitentiary thin pad that gives your guests a tailbone fracture by the end of the night from a frame wedgie. Maybe I had you all wrong, you’re not just an interior designers bad trip, you’re Jigsaw with a penchant for cotton fiber... and dust mites.

Because how do you even clean these amorphous blobs of unsanitary disappointment? Sure, the manuals say you gotta wash the cover and beat them, but how? By the time you remember, they’re already three times heavier than when you got them. Now they’re overflowing with Burning Man levels of sweat, dead skin, parasites, and whatever bodily fluids your guests decided to leave behind. I mean hell since you clearly don’t care about them, why should they return the favor?

You can’t even put on a fitted sheet!

Okay, granted. I think we can all agree that fitted sheets are a nightmare. When you need to watch a YouTube tutorial or carve a summoning circle in the basement floor to access the ancient wisdom necessary to properly fold linens, I think that’s a step too far. Especially when you’re just going to bundle the thing up and shove it somewhere till you change the sheets next year. But I digress. They expect you to buy a “Futon cover” That you got to zip closed, with the tiniest, pettiest zipper.

See? They aren’t even pretending anymore, they know how disgusting futon mattresses are. Having you get a mattress condom instead of a marginally less stupid looking fitted sheet. We aren’t in college anymore. Practicing “safe sleeping practices” shouldn’t be a necessary phrase in any language. Plus it doesn’t cover the liability claim factories that those frames are.

Whether wood, metal, or whatever composite late stage capitalistic bullshit material they’re built with, they seemingly have one goal in mind: Wanna swap from shitty couch to shitty bed? prepare to enter the textile mills of the 1800s, cause they’re coming for your soft defenseless fingers!

If you wanted pain, just slam your hand in the car door a few dozen times. Cause it just seems like you want to indulge your own self loathing but with extra steps. You can have poor taste, you can dress like a burlap sack with too high tube socks, but please don’t be a bad host. You’re better than that.

I can accept a day bed, couch, lounger, chaise, bean bags, or put an actual queen size bed in your living room, hell put two. Make it an actual wall to wall “bedroom.” That would still look better than having that bad decision chimera sitting front and center, broadcasting to the world that you don’t like grilled cheese sandwiches or something equally monstrous.

Love yourself for once.

-RC

Subscribe now

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 blunt, emotionally unavailable roast for the forgettable and avoidable.
You’ve got the kind of energy that makes people suddenly crave a long, long grocery trip.

Subscribe now

Al is a dick. I hitched a ride with him and Sam after getting stranded on a pirate ship in the doldrums of the mid Atlantic when Doc Brown decided to stop for brunch. Grog and salted cod is a crappy meal no matter what time of day you decide to sit down and self flagellate your taste buds. Anyway, it’s really hard to get up to speed when your entire runway consists of a gangplank 16 inches wide. Doc said I should go on ahead, and he’d catch up later after figuring something out. So I did exactly that. But after Quantum leaping to a dozen different realities, Al was getting pissed that I never changed form, and I was getting sick of his passive aggression. Even Ziggy was starting to sound a little uncomfortable after the fifth time he made an offhand comment about chickens being able to survive without a head.

I ain’t taking no guff from a hologram.

Especially one that thinks Hawaiian shirts are acceptable attire in any timeline.

Bescumber:

From the 15th and 16th centuries, “Bescumber” made “Cumber” official. “Cumber” initially meant to defile, but the addition of “Be” transformed it like a chrysalis of derision. Together they turned into a beautifully foul smelling butterfly meaning to literally “Shower with filth or excrement” Which is exactly what Al needed. Because seriously, when has a Hawaiian shirt not been a sign of exceedingly poor taste? Think about it, dude got to travel through time like rides at an empty amusement park and the best he could come up with was high contrasted pastel pineapples and khakis? I hope his next appearance is in the bottom of an Arkansas outhouse, where the locals can bescumber him into changing clothes. Besides. I hear earth tones can be very calming.

Lubberwort:

Okay. So... sure, a new way to call someone “idle” and “sluggish.” Related to some great fabled but non existent “weed” that when consumed would steal someones weekend and leave them couch ridden. Presumably with a 2 liter of mountain dew and 5 bags of Doritos. I guess people dreamed of the devil grass earlier than we thought, because the 16th century English were calling out stoners even then! Wait... if Jamaica got colonized by the British in what? 1655 was it? Maybe they ergot poisoned themselves into a few tokes of manifest destiny. Imagine the joy those sailors felt. Queen sends you go pick up some sugarcane, and on your way back you discover those seas were a big higher than you remembered. Now you can’t get up, or stand up either. No woman, no cry indeed!

Hedge-Born:

I don’t get why people throughout time have simply obsessed over birthrights as if it took some great skill to be born in a particular set of circumstances. This 16th century diss is just saying you entered this world of the peasant caste. Low born, like under a hedge. Beneath a bush. Betwixt shrubs. Personally I’d much rather be born into instant kinship with the Knights of Ni than any self important asshat who’d been parading the achievement of being the fastest sperm for their entire life. Like congrats, do something already, and while you’re at it, bring me a shrubbery.

Well, I finally got away from Al and his thinly veiled tropical flavored aggression. I told him that his fashion style is so bad it looked like his forehead was trying to escape over the top of his head. (He was really sensitive about his comb over.) Dude got all huffy and next thing I know I’m being dropped off in this super cute ancient Roman... resort village? I’m not a huge fan of olives, but togas are super comfy, and who doesn’t love lamb and wine, and freshly served theatre! Apparently in his haste to get rid of me he left me in a Mediterranean paradise! Jokes on him, I hope he gets kidnapped to a Men’s Wearhouse.

Anyway I’m gunna hit the beach, its a perfect day! If only that big ol mountain would stop smoking so I could work on my tan.

-RC

Subscribe now

First, let me set the scene.

You got your scented amaranth and oud candles lit, bubble bath piled high on a blisteringly hot bath loaded with more bath bombs than 1952 Korea. Winnie the Pooh bath pillow fluffed up just right, and lights dimmed perfectly. Pastel faux loofa soft and ready to cuddle up with that triple french milled “birthday cake” scented (definitely not flavored) bar soap. Some Depeche Mode spinning in the background, I personally recommend the appropriately foreboding “Violator” album.

And of course.

A box of Q Tips.

Mm hmm, there’s something particularly satisfying about leveraging out handsome gobbits of ear goo on those delightful cotton tipped spelunkers. A few moments of work, a few twists, a few deep giggles and sighs of relief. Way more giggles than the head plunger or wet vac methods, with a far smoother cleanup and less head trauma too. Ear canals so clean the 5 second rule no longer applies, with the added bonus of being able to hear colors.

But masturbatory adjacent ear cleaning rituals aside, I would be remiss, as a chicken who holds ear hygiene near and dear to his heart and nethers, if I did not warn you all about the fraudsters and charlatans that currently plague this highly specific and nuanced theater of bathroom operations.

Or more accurately, take them to task with fistfuls of indignant rage at the audacity required to claim they are equally as effective or enjoyable as the real rolled paper and cotton tufts of actual Q Tips. My indictment begins with those stupid false prophets that show up with plastic stems instead of paper.

Weak and flimsy, just like any ice cream brand that dares to label itself premium while being churned with skim milk and anything afterwards. You’re sitting there trying to extract your hard earned ear canal chutney and they bend. Bend like a yoga instructor with a terrible case of osteoporosis. Failing you in your most vulnerable personal hygiene moment. Paper is the way, no quarter given.

Candling? okay. Novelty aside this is a nonsensical idea. Outside of survival scenarios when you’re somehow stuck in the middle of nowhere and you’re not on a game show, or you live in a country with a third world power grid no candles should ever be used that aren’t scented. I mean okay fine, if you’re trying to commune spiritually with your dead cat via the Ouija board I’ll offer a provisional license in this case, but please extinguish thoroughly when done and remember to close out the board utilizing proper spirit board etiquette. No one needs to be possessed by a demon masquerading as Mr. Jenkins.

The demonic has very little appreciation of decency, or irony for that matter.

Drops. Of any kind. C’mon. Look, this chicken does not like the idea of using liquid to extract slightly more congealed liquid from the ears. I mean sure, doctors go to school a LONG TIME, so I am sure they know what they are talking about. But I am not arguing this point from a hill completely undefended. Because in this case? I just don’t like them. It lacks all the visceral joy of seeing the WORK. Sort of like how you always look down before you flush. A point of personal pride. A moment of “Yea. *I* made that.” Drops are like closing the lid and then flushing. No one does that.

Who isn’t a monster anyway. Don’t worry, Ill hold the choke point so y’all can escape, I’ve died on worst hills.

Sharp objects? Even my nonsense has limits. If you’re actively applying for Darwin awards, please do it elsewhere. Everyone wants their so called 15 minutes of fame, but if yours is trying to be the reason another line gets added to the safety instructions, I can think of a number of better ways to achieve infamy. In short, keep sharp and pointy objects away from your damn ears. Go see if you can get a Guinness World Record achievement for most pairs of underwear worn outside clothes the longest.

Why are those books always so damn sparkly for that matter? and how the hell can I buy them for $3.99 at like Marshall’s, but my college textbooks cost $300 and a kidney? Oh it’s the ink and paper they say. Sure it is. I see how much ink and paper grocery stores and junk mailers stuff my mailbox with each week. I reject this parity.

I’m gunna go clean my ears to calm down. I’ll see y’all in 15 minutes.

-RC

Subscribe now

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 ruthless personal roast for anyone with a romantic track record best left buried.
Love may be blind, but your exes clearly needed glasses and therapy.

Subscribe now

As a Chicken of the people, I prefer my disrespect served fresh, hot, and right in front of my face. Don’t beat around the shrubbery, don’t step on my tulips, and don’t you dare caramelize my onions. Just sell me what you got. If times are tough and you gotta shave a lil off to maintain the bottom line?

Fine. But say so.

Don’t you dare lie to me, and shatter the fragile trust that we’ve built over decades! I expect my 85 grams of generic ice cream sandwich to BE 85 grams. How dare you give me 70 and still charge me more?! This level of fraudery is unacceptable. I demand real ice cream, not skimmed milk byproducts and whole milk powders. This is confection based condescension.

It may even have reached the point that we need to take things back. Take the produce out of production and grow our own tomatoes. I’ll make my own Ketchup thank you very much. You ever notice the calorie counts are going DOWN? That’s not progress, that’s reverse engineered regression. Obesity might be an epidemic, but it’s one of the last things we actually have control over, you can’t take that away from us!

You have lotions putting air nipples up at the bottoms, new formulas that try to gaslight you into thinking that making it shittier is somehow to your benefit, and all of this for what, so that they can buy a premium new formula lube for you and your wallet?!

Like most poultry, we are not afraid of exploration. My siblings have aggressively colonized everywhere worth colonizing on this planet. I refuse to accept that this is the status quo. I think its time we turned the tables. We need to explore new ways to hit back.

They demand 40 hours? spend 5 in the bathroom. You weren’t scamming, you were “Implementing new protocols that increased waste management efficiency by 17%!” Refill the printer paper 2 sheets of paper at a time! That sounds a lot like “Ensuring optimal paper product utilization by 34%” if you asked me. Which you should, because when it comes to excellent management skills, I got them in spades, clubs, and diamonds, but not hearts. Because emotions have no place in this war room. This revenge is cold and calculated.

Maybe then they’ll know that we mean business. Roll those clocks back and give us the real versions of the reality we know, love, and take for granted. Because sometimes when everything around you gets stupid, the only direction to go is sideways and get stupid right along with it. Misery loves company, and I’m starting to feel awfully lonely.

-RC

Subscribe now

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 clever, backhanded personal insult roast for the prototype no one copied.
You’re proof that people can have standards. Just… not here.

Subscribe now

Ever the intrepid explorer, I am a chicken who knows the ins and outs of world travel and adventure. I have ventured deep into the nebulous territories of the Starbucks inside of another Starbucks bathroom. All the way to the furthest reaches of the astral plane where the last McDonald’s offering 39 cent super size exists. Granted that “super size” comes with quite a lot of metaphysical and existential baggage, the point stands. I’ve seen some shit. Which is why my rage flows with both bridled and unbridled fluency at the disrespect many of these hotel chains try to pass off as a “gym.”

Generally speaking, hotels are one of the more commonly accepted liminally thresholded places in the world. If you’re there, regardless of the reason, you are in a state of transition. Your stay is a moment of stillness amidst a state of movement from one station to the next. Whether vacation or figuring shit out. So it would also make sense that if you are going to go work out, there be a gym ready, willing, and able to assist you to that end. Not slap you across the mouth and call it chapstick. Because the only thing chapped when I see that empty water bubbler with cobwebs and no cups, or treadmill that has an “out of order” sign written in papyrus, is my ass.

It’s hard enough forcing the willpower to work out in the first place, hotel beds are rarely comfortable. Quality of sleep is usually an experiment in how good you are at lying to yourself. After all, the sheets are usually moist, and you can’t ever be entirely sure it’s from cleaning. “Continental” breakfasts are used car salesmanesk fabrications loaded with too much sugar and 300% of your RDA of microplastics. Is it really that difficult to just put down a coherent weight set and some jump rope? A working TV? I’d even settle for a nice freshly chalked hop scotch grid.

Instead you mostly end up with a weight set in the end stages of cognitive dissonance or a full blown personality disorder. Weights that make no sense, half wrapped in mismatch colored neoprene, enough out of order signs plentiful enough to rival a laundromat. Layout looking like MC Esher designed the whole thing in the middle of a depressive episode that stretched into a full uncancelled Netflix series. Machines facing the wrong way working in fractions, and you’re hoping that whatever fraction it’s in the mood to carry is the one that lets you kind of sweat out last nights bar tab. Or in some kind of hellish contrast you open the door and find yourself in the middle of a famine of options, only finding a dirty thong, a broken Pogo stick, and trash can with no liner.

Why can’t we just put the barest minimum into these things? Try to keep some degree of fidelity to what was promised? You claim you got a hotel gym, so put one in there! Haven’t we already lent you enough in the ways of credibility? We all know your “Business” Center is a fraud. I see the thousand yard stares on your staff, and vending machines perpetually sold out of everything except 4am frustration. Is an actually functional gym really a bridge too far?

Whatever.

Next time I stay I’ll bring my own gear. Maybe I’ll even teach your staff advanced martial arts, so when the next time employee reviews come around, they’ll be ready. Mortal Kombat style. We’ll see how many “need improvement” then.

Fatality.

-RC

Subscribe now

Screw water and the river it rode in on. Infiltrating our homes from distant aquifers and reservoirs through pipes with enough cholesterol adjacent sediment that is it any surprise that water mains break? Is it any surprise that fire hydrant water smells like grundle non dairy cheese product? We are so far removed from the simple joys of sucking our hydration out of garden hoses. Back when the forbidden alchemy of the hose delivered pure, wholesome water, definitely untainted by heavy metals and drug metabolites.

I bet the Romans are looking down on us from the Elysian fields scratching their laurel wreaths in confusion. The ones in Tartarus probably have bigger problems so we’ll leave them alone for now. Let it never be said that I am a chicken unfamiliar with mercy. I mean sure, they dealt with lead poisoning just like we do now, but they also wiped their asses with sponges and olive oil. 2,000 years ago, certain compromises just had to be made. Like accepting that there were more skid marks on those lily white togas than at a Nascar rally. Probably.

What isn’t probable is how bottled water is a judgment against a system that somehow allowed a viable business to arrive because its domestic water stores were just that shitty. And in the places they ain’t that shitty, not running a big enough PR campaign to prove the fraud. It’s like Spaceball’s “Perri-Air” was satirically foreboding. Look. I ain’t against the next dude making an honest buck. But how the hell does it make sense that you have an industry with a GDP higher than legit 50% of the worlds countries all because your local water company refuses to use a water filter?

How embarrassing.

Even more when some of these companies literally just run our own water through a Brita and resell it. Maybe that’s the biggest issue right? The late stage capitalistic excuse that pushed the innovative drive down the basement stairs without a Life Alert. Instead of saving money through fixing problems, lets make money by perpetuating and not fixing them. Then they can get an expensed boat trip to Antarctica to chisel some of the ice off and melt it down for next years new bottled water brand: “Unnecessary Largess” served in 32 ounces of 10% post consumer recycled plastic product bottles shaped like a middle finger.

Refreshing.

Equally as not refreshing as anyone who dares make hot chocolate with water. How dare you. Go look in the mirror, to you can see the face of someone who is the walking billboard of social entropy. I don’t care if its all that’s available. You better ratchet up triple the Swiss Miss to compensate. Four times the marshmallows. Maybe some coffee creamer. Maybe hazelnut, but look this is about your redemption, not my own personal taste! (Definitely hazelnut.)

The betrayal is legendary, someone offering you a paper cup of sweet chocolaty goodness, that ends up feeling like a diluted jazz cover band playing from the aforementioned basement floor, also having forgotten their Life Alerts upstairs. It’s not the same as a bad cup of coffee. Most people don’t drink coffee for the taste, except the ones paying 10$ for 2000 grams of sugar and a status symbol cup. But with hot cocoa? Milk or half and half only okay? Incorporate this lesson, people have been denied Nirvana for far less.

As a chicken who has battle rapped with many a great spiritual intermediary and archetypal entity across space and time, trust when I say this counsel is sound. RC’s got your back.

-RC

Subscribe now

2 cents.

That is roughly how much a napkin costs.

You know what else costs 2 cents?

NOTHING.

At least not anymore, not even Grandma’s candy, those butterscotch’s and strawberries that once dreamed a dream of being a Gusher, not with inflation and price gouging running amuck.

Anyway, whether you’re slurpin’ some Ramen with noodles kicking miso all over your shirt, or you’re getting down right inappropriate with a pile of ribs, what is with these “Establishments” giving you one.. pathetic.. cheap ass napkin to handle your business with?

Do they want you looking like you got lonely and decided to shoot a porno with a giant vat of Sloppy Joe with extra sauce?

Some food defiles clothing by design, and no matter what you do, some aspect of your clothes are destined to be collateral damage.

But don’t be one of those prissy “keep the royal bloodline pure” and hemophilic inbreds who eat Pizza with a knife and fork. You’re better than that.

Sure. You could ask for more napkins.. but who wants to do that? You—Todd?! You’re too scared to tell the waitress you asked for mashed potatoes instead of fries.

No. How about they provide some actual customer service and give you a damn pile of napkins ahead of time, when they full well know the food is going to demand it!

Lets focus on some of the important issues of the day for once.

Go step on a Lego Todd.

No one likes you.

-RC

Subscribe now

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

Subscribe now

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

Subscribe now

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

Subscribe now

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

Subscribe now

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

Subscribe now