Eleven volumes of Chickenman can be purchased on iTunes; but one volume will probably do you just fine. To start.
Chickenman is an American radio series that spoofs comic book heroes. It was created in the mid 1960s by Dick Orkin, who at the time was a production director at WCFL in Chicago, Illinois. Its famous catch-phrase is, "He's everywhere! He's everywhere!"
The series was loosely patterned after the Batman television show. It made its appearance in the spring of 1966 as a segment on radio station WCFL's Jim Runyon Show. Runyon served as its narrator. Orkin voiced the hero throughout the 195 episodes.
In the series, the super hero known as Chickenman is Benton Harbor, a shoe salesman at a large Midland City department store. Because of his Monday to Friday working hours, Chickenman can only fight crime on weekends. The main characters include Police Commissioner Benjamin Norton, Norton's secretary Miss Honor Helfinger (Jane Roberts), Chickenman's mother Mildred Harbor (also Jane Roberts), and his girlfriend Sayde Leckner (Jane Roberts once again). Chickenman's mother sometimes helps out as the "Maternal Marauder" (also known as the "Masked Mother"). Chickenman roams Midland City seeking criminals in his yellow crime-fighting car, appropriately known as the Chicken Coupe. The program's music is borrowed; the introductory theme is taken from the James Bond classic "Thunderball", since the four-note trumpet sound fits perfectly with Benton Harbor's "Buck-buck-buck-buuuuuck" chicken call that precedes the title.
Chickenman's greatest foes include the Chicken-Plucker, the Dog Lady, Big Clyde Crushman, the Bear Lady, the Very Diabolical, Rodney Farber (a childhood playmate who never forgave Benton Harbor for breaking his red wagon one Christmas Day), and the Couple From SHTICK (Secret Henchmen To Injure Crime Killers). Benton Harbor is prone to spoonerisms, such as "I shall not rest while rime runs crampant in the streets of Midland City."
~Wikipedia
My parents called me recently to let me know that their cat had died. They have had a number of cats that have come and gone, and they don't normally call me to apprise me of the losses, but I knew this cat and I was rooting for it to live forever. Alas, it only made it to the halfway point of cat-life.
My parents had long ago adopted the psuedo-Native American ideal of naming their pets after the conditions under which said pets were gained. For example, they once found a dog on the side of the road, thus named it Roadie. I think that after sixty years of pet ownership, they got tired of thinking up names, and are only a few pets away from names such as Brown Dog or Cat #3. The recently deceased cat was originally found in an alley in the middle of a rain storm, so my parents named it Cat From The Rainy Alley.
No, I'm kidding. They called it Stormy.
My father happened across Stormy as a kitten. Not a kitten with extra-soft fur and wide, curious eyes, but a kitten with bare, pink, wrinkled skin and its eyes still shut. Fresh from the oven, and lying on the cement in the rain. Luckily, my father was raised on a farm and knew a thing or two about baby animals. He took the wee lump of skin home, and managed to keep him alive. My parents assumed that he was the runt of the litter, rejected by his mother, and left to die in the harsh environment.
As Stormy grew, it became apparent that something was wrong with him. He couldn't seem to do anything that my parents' other cats could do, try as he might. They took him to the vet and determined that because of either genetics or early-life hypothermia, the cat had partial blindness, extremely poor balance due to inner ear complications, and underdeveloped rear legs. Also, because of some deprived nursing instinct, the cat was constantly trying to nurse on people. If you pet him, he would purr and nestle up against you and... slowly... calmly... quietly... start nursing on a random portion of your skin. I can't even begin to describe what a bizarre sensation that is. And though there was never any official diagnosis in this regard, it appeared that the cat was profoundly stupid. Despite all of this, my parents told Stormy the same thing they told me many, many times: "You're goofier than bat shit, but we love you anyway."
Being the runt of the litter, nobody expected the cat to get very big. And he didn't get very big; he got huge. He was twice the size of a normal cat, which didn't match well with his underdeveloped abilities. He would saunter into the room, then suddenly bust his face on a table leg or wall, or maybe just fall over, because he had no idea where he was going. After he regained his bearings, he would notice that the other cats were jumping up onto the windowsill to bask in the sun, and pounce straight into the side of the wall because he believed he was a normal cat that could do normal cat-like things. Finally, dejected, he would seek human companionship and suckle on the nearest piece of exposed flesh. If you didn't know better, you'd think that my parents owned an alcoholic puma with a histrionic personality disorder.
The truly pitiful thing about Stormy was that he didn't know that he was 110% gimpy. For the duration of his life, he believed he was a tiny, lissome kitten that could pounce and bound like a healthy cat. He didn't know that he weighed forty pounds and could barely achieve two inches of vertical lift. He didn't know he was five years old and couldn't derive milk from the side of my arm. He was the Baby Huey of Felis cattus and you couldn't help but feel sympathy for him and his quixotic attempts to be a standard household cat.
In honor of his passing, I plan to create an animated television series. The show's star character will be a senile old lady who adopts a kitten that turns out to be a mentally challenged cougar. But the cougar doesn't know it's a cougar because the senile, old lady always treats it like a kitten. When bad guys and nogoodniks try to swindle the innocent old lady, the cougar will accidently foil them in his constant search for affection. Then, everything will return to normal.
"Oh, my, but we have some adventures, don't we Stormy?"
"ROAR!"
"That's my kitty."
Learn more.
Do better.
In 2002, Jack C. Newell reworked an essay written by his older brother, the late Patrick C. Newell, and turned it into a short film. This short film also serves as the acting debut for one Jason Katzwinkel. That would be me. You'll notice that I did not go on to wow Hollywood. The reason for that will soon be obvious.
Me: "Hi there! 2+2=4."
World: "Hello. Are you sure?"
Me: "Yes, positive. I've run tests."
World: "Hrm... interesting. You know, I'd really rather 2+2=5."
Me: "Yeah, I know. But, I'm sorry, it doesn't."
World: "You see, if 2+2=5, then I could really get a lot more out of my 2's."
Me: "I see where you're coming from, but 2+2=4, I'm afraid."
World: "Well, can't you just do whatever you did to make 2+2=4, except make the 4 into a 5?"
Me: "I didn't make it this way. 2+2=4, that's simply the way it is."
World: "Okay... I'm a flexible person. How about we say that 2+2=4.5 and call it a day?"
Me: "What? No. That's not how it works."
World: "Oh, first you say you didn't make it that way, now you're telling me how it works? Get your story straight. 2+2=4.25, then. How's that?"
Me: "Absolutely not. 2+2=4, and that's just the way it has to be."
World: "I don't understand why you're being so unreasonable. What is with this compulsive need to be right all the time?"
Me: "I am bored of your stupidity."
World: "You're an asshole."
I've been trying a new brand of vitamins lately, a brand of vitamins that claims to be better because they're more "soluble," which is allegedly better in the world of vitamins.
Side note: How the hell can there be no such product as Vitamints? It's so obvious. Tic Tacs fortified with eleven essential vitamins and minerals. Come on, universe... try to keep up.
So, my new vitamins come in the form of a powder in a gel capsule. Now, I knew right off the bat that the vitamins are worthless, because any product that comes in the form of a powder in a gel capsule is a sham. It's probably powderized horse hooves and it's making me sterile right at this moment. But, I'm the kind of guy who is willing to give a pill the benefit of the doubt, especially after having paid for it.
This morning I popped one in my mouth and swallowed it. Then I popped in another one, because I had forgotten to take one the day before. I know that's not how it works, but allow me my voodoo snake oil fantasies. I'm supposed to take the vitamins with a full glass of water... but who has time? I walked out the door and headed to the train for work.
About halfway to work, while sitting on the train, I felt a strange sensation in my throat, like a tickle that quickly increased in intensity. While wondering what was going on, I suddenly let out a deep, body-shifting hiccup and out with the loud, cartoony, "Hweek-upp!" came a cloud of brown dust from my mouth and nose. It was everywhere, a fine particulate cloud around my head, as well as in my throat, nasal cavity and lungs. I started hacking and wheezing, and more brown dust came out of me as I did so.
The dust was in my throat, on my uvula and I thought I was going to vomit. I coughed up half of a wadded-up gelatin capsule and spit it on the floor, still trying desperately to breathe. Finally, I waved the cloud away and regained some composure. I breathed as best I could, and brushed the dust off of my face and clothes. I tried to get the brown powder out of my nose and mouth as inconspicuously as I could. Then I tried to pretend that everybody on the train missed the whole spectacle.
If you hear news of a demonic possession on an elevated train, they're probably talking about me.
"Excuse me, sir. You have some of your regurgitated, tainted soul on your shirt collar. And you dropped some ectoplasm on the floor."
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"Do people die from chicken pops, Uncle Jason?" the tiny, little Logan asks.
"Oh, sure. People die from it all the time! My own twin brother fell victim to chicken pox when we were just little kids...about your age, as a matter of fact. Of course, it was called Devil's Eyes back then 'cause people thought that the Devil could see through the spots."
"Really? Because Jimmy McDermott is gonna get to stay home for two weeks 'cause he got 'em."
"Didja like 'im?"
"No! He's always passing notes to Smelly Shelly telling her that I like her even when I DON'T!"
Uncle Jason shrugs noncommittally. "Well, I wouldn't worry about him any more. Even if he does survive the cranial urine shots, his chances of living through the insideoutomy are slim."
Logan goes wide-eyed. "Inside Out Of Me?"
"Insideoutomy. Y'see, when Devil's Eyes reaches an advanced state of festering, the skin can no longer survive. So what the doctors do, to keep you from breaking open and spilling all over the floor, is to take out your insides and put them in a garbage bag, brains, eyeballs, and all. Of course, the bones might puncture the bag, so they leave those behind."
Logan stands perfectly still, staring off into space with a mask of horror on his pallid face as the idea of an insideoutomy churns his brain and stomach.
"Don't worry, though. It's not so bad in there. My brother lived in the bag for two whole years. His last meal was an egg."
