Chickenhead Gets Drunk

April 26, 2001

THE PERILS OF GIRL SCOUT COOKIES

 

Rick, Ed and I started setting up the equipment. Our band, Rock Paper
Scissors, was playing at the Happy Hand Grenade pub. Jeremy, a friend of
Ed’s who worked security at pro-wrestling shows, helped us out. We were told
that the other band, The Sockdolagers, had cancelled; so, we had to play two
sets. It’s not as if we didn’t have enough songs, but, hey, we weren’t The
Who, and two sets of any unknown band is a little much. But we were
troopers, so we agreed.
After setting up, we all sat at or around the bar until it was time to go
on. I don’t usually drink, but I figured that if we were the only band
playing, I needed to be feeling a little something. Now, I’m not a fan of
beer, or wine, or scotch, or anything like that, which is why I don’t go
into bars ordering drinks willy-nilly. I remembered a drink I had at my
sister’s boyfriend’s bar called a Girl Scout cookie, a very effeminate drink
to be asking for with vodka, peppermint schnapps, and something with cocoa
in it. It was like a thin mint. I didn’t get too many weird looks as I sat
next to Jeremy, talking about his security endeavors. The drunker I got, the
more loud and bizarre my end of the conversation became.
“Do you know any bar jokes?” I asked Jeremy.
“Bar jokes?” he said. “Uh, a ham sandwich walks into a bar, and the
bartender says, ‘Hey, we don’t serve food here.’”
I laughed obnoxiously like Max Cady in a movie theater, and then begged
him for another one.
“All right,” he said. “A termite walks into a bar and says, ‘Is the bar
tender here?’”
There was more ridiculous laughter on my part, but I quickly became
serious.
“Jerry,” I said. “What does your bar look like?”
“What?” he replied.
“When you hear a bar joke, what does the bar look like in your head? My
bar is Moe’s bar on ‘The Simpsons,’ and the bartender looks like the guy who
owned ‘The Regal Beagle’ on ‘Three’s Company.’”
“I think of ‘Cheers,’” Jeremy said.
“Oh yeah?” I replied. “Hey, listen to this.” He seemed interested, but
even if he wasn’t, I was going to continue anyway. “I can prove to you,
through logic, that a peanut butter sandwich is better than eternal
happiness.”
“Really?” he said.
“Yep,” I replied. “Check it out. Nothing is better than eternal
happiness. Okay? And a peanut butter sandwich is better than nothing.
Therefore, a peanut butter sandwich is better than eternal happiness.”
“I see,” Jeremy said.
“Hey, is Todd coming tonight,” my band mate Ed asked me as he sat down.
It was this thing heterosexual men sometimes do in putting on an effeminate,
even gay, voice. It had escalated between us band members that I even had a
companion named Todd. That we were in a straight bar full of seedy
characters, and I had already ordered three of the same uber-gay drink,
which I was drunk from, didn’t occur to me.
“No, we had a big fight,” I said in my best flamboyantly gay voice. “He
got all huffy, so I told him to stay home. I said, ‘This queen’s gotta
perform tonight, honey. Maybe I’ll pick up a real man.’ Oogah!”
I could already see that Jeremy was troubled by this display. Within
three minutes, he quietly left and didn’t look at or speak to me the rest of
the night. Set one went fine, and during the brief intermission, Jeremy
stayed far away from me. I was drunker and a real raging queen during the
break.
“I can’t believe I’m a homophobia victim and I’m not even gay,” I said,
using the voice that could have gotten me beat up. “I mean, who does he
think he is? He should be so lucky. Look at me; I’m a vicious cross between
Gregory Peck and Harvey Fierstein. Oogah!”
By the end of the first song of the first set, we had completely worn out
our welcome. I was so drunk that I could hardly play, and the crowd was
yelling for us to stop. We didn’t, sadly, and it became more and more
embarrassing, but also funny, the way we sucked so badly. After we finished,
I was almost falling-down drunk, and decided it was a good idea to confront
Jeremy the homophobe with my slurred insults.
“Let me tell you something, buddy,” I said to him. “Mr. Bigot Homophobe,
I’m not gay. I love womens, all kinds of them. That hidden dragon chick in
the Groucho Tigger movie, Bruce, uh, Willis’s wife in ‘The Sixth Sense.’ I’d
even do Miss Henrietta Pussycat from ‘Mr. Rogers’s Neighborhood. I love
women and really fufu drinks. I’d have Carista Pop Tarts, Anna Kourncabana,
Mae West, it doesn’t matter. I’m a crazy, insane hetero, and you’re a
stupid, nasty racist. Wait…I mean, what’s like racism, but for gays? That’s
you, and that’s me. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. And if I were
gay, I could do a whole lot better than you, Grizzly Adams. Do you watch
‘Will & Grace?’ I’ll take Paul Lynde for the block.”
Then I passed out. I don’t know what happened right after that. What I do
know is that I woke up the next morning in my underwear somewhere along the
Massachusetts Turnpike like I had just been John Malkovich.
Beware, children. For these are the perils of Girl Scout cookies.

Chickenhead: Allergies

Chickenhead assured us that the following is a true story.

April 24, 2001-Allergies

Thursday nights were big party nights at Terry Taylor College, but being
borderline agoraphobic, and stricken with numerous other anxiety disorders,
kept me in the townhouse every evening. It was me and the kitten, a stray my
roommate Bryan and his parents found on Ashland Street. It was a stroke of
genius naming her Ashland. I told Bryan that Ashley is more of a name, not
for a cat, but better than Ashland. He was insistent.
We were going to have a lovely evening, the two of us, watching NBC’s
“Must See TV” lineup while Ash climbed all over me. I grabbed the remote
control and tried to zap her as she attacked futilely. The remote fell to
the floor and she went after it, knocking over Bryan’s bottle of chewed
tobacco. That was Bryan’s idea of decorating apparently: A dozen beer
bottles filled with spit-out Skoal and Red Man and placed randomly like
landmines throughout the townhouse. Ash got some on her and I wiped her tiny
feet with Bryan’s blanket. Serves him right.

 

When “Will & Grace” came on, my cat allergies started kicking in. I have
since learned that I can be around cats and dogs as long as I don’t touch my
face until I wash my hands. My eyes watered and my nose and throat itched. I
had to come up with a plan without isolating myself from Ash. I placed a
chair between the couch I was sitting on and the television. Ash did not
like this and soon began leaping at me as if saying, “Why don’t you love me
anymore?” She leaped twice unsuccessfully, and on the third try banged her
little head on one of the bars under the chair. If I didn’t feel bad then, I
certainly did as she dejectedly crawled back onto the couch and buried
herself in my other roommate Nick’s jacket. It was heartbreaking. I went to
her, pleading, “I’m so sorry, Ash. I still love you. Are you all right?
Here, let’s play.” She recovered, but I needed something to help my
allergies. Then I remembered Q.Q.
Q.Q. was not so much the local allergist as he was just a guy who
practiced medicine and lived in an old whiskey bottle on our kitchen
counter. I gently rubbed his bottle, and out in a puff of smoke came Dr.
Q.Q., practicing his golf swing.
“What? Hey, what’s the idea, calling for me while I’m working?” he
demanded.
“Q.Q., I need something for my allergies,” I begged.
“Didn’t I tell you that if you stay away from Miss Henrietta Pussycat
over there, you wouldn’t have this problem?”
“Yes,” I said. “But…”
“Yeah, but, but, but,” he said. “If shoulds and buts were beer and nuts,
we’d have one hell of a time, wouldn’t we, Sneezy?”
“Q.Q.”
“Dr. Q.Q., please. Do you have anything to drink around here?”
Q.Q. opened the refrigerator and grabbed an open beer bottle. He took a
swig and immediately spit it out.
“What the hell is this crap?” he shouted.
“Oh, that might be some of Bryan’s tobacco spit.”
“Good Lord, I think I’m gonna vomit,” Q.Q. said as he ran into the
bathroom.
“Gallant thanks his host for the cold beverage,” I hollered. “Goofus runs
away screaming about how he’s gonna throw up.”
“Now, look, jar head,” Q.Q. said, returning. “You need to get rid of that
darn cat and get an armadillo or something. You’re like Elvis with the
pills.”
“Q.Q.,” I said. “She’s not my cat to get rid of.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Wanna see a trick? You see this?” He pulled out a wand,
a magic wand perhaps. “Bet you didn’t know I was a magician. The Amazing
Q.Q., they used to call me.”
“They? Who’s they?” I asked.
“Well, mostly winos and prostitutes, but it was folks like that who made
Houdini famous.”
“Really?” I said.
“I don’t know. Watch.” Q.Q. motioned his wand toward Ash and she
disappeared.
“Holy shit, Q.Q.!” I said. “You made her disappear.”
“Yeah, so the narrator told us, Clouseau” Q.Q. replied. “Clever
observation, boy.”
“You’re a witch. They burn witches, Q.Q.”
“It would be warlock, and I’m not one. Thank you very much,” he replied.
“Bring her back,” I demanded.
“Fine, get sick and die.” Q.Q. motioned again and something appeared, but
it wasn’t Ash.
“Uh, Q.Q.,” I said. “That’s a bucket of fish.”
“So?” he said. “Cats like fish. Let me try again.” He motioned again, and
I began to worry about little Ash.
“Q.Q., that’s Fatty Arbuckle, silent film comedian. Please bring the cat
back.”
“Sorry,” Q.Q. said. “Better keep him away from all these tobacco
bottles.” Q.Q. tried again and a giant Tyrannosaurus Rex stood in our living
room.
“Heavens to Mergatroid,” Q.Q. said. “You’re on your own, kid. I’m out of
here. See ya.”
“Bullshit, Doc,” I said. “I’m coming with you.”
We both jumped into Q.Q.’s bottle until the coast cleared, or so I
thought. Q.Q. informed me that mortals can get into a bottle, but not out.
Wonderful. For the rest of our lives, we would be The Odd Couple. I would
never see little Ash again, nor do I know where she is. And frankly, I was a
bit more concerned about living my life in a whiskey bottle, thank you.

THE GREAT PILLOW FIGHT OF 1989

Chickenhead loved a good pillow fight, but who doesn't, right?

April 22

THE GREAT PILLOW FIGHT OF 1989

“Stephanie, your friends are here!” my mother shouted.
It was a night I couldn’t wait for. Megan, Emily and Jen were coming over
for a slumber party. School was about over for the year, and we were
celebrating having the entire summer to ourselves. We wanted to go to the
movies to see “Teen Witch,” but my mom said it was playing too late. So we
stayed in, doing each other’s hair while watching “Perfect Strangers,” “Full
House,” and “Mr. Belvedere.”

We were all such good friends. Megan was the smart one. She already had
it planned out that, when she grew up, she was going to marry Donald Trump.
She was the pride of her family, which wasn’t very difficult to accomplish
considering that her brother was in prison for cocaine possession, stalking
Debbie Gibson, and sending threatening letters to Bill Buckner.

Emily was the one my brother called “The Ditz.” She was a huge New Kids
On The Block fan. She had shirts, CDs, videos, pillows, blankets…you name
it. If it was NKOTB, Emily had it. If you ever met her, she would
immediately tell you about when she met Joey McIntyre. He was signing CDs at
Strawberries with the rest of the band. We were all there; so we all met
them. Emily says Joey looked at her a certain way. So I guess Megan has
Donald, and Emily has Joey.

Jen was the cool one. She didn’t care much for “Teen Witch,” or “Full
House,” or the New Kids. She wanted to see “Pet Sematary,” and watched “L.A.
Law” and “Moonlighting,” and had a brother who took her to see Motley Crue,
Warrant and Cinderella. Megan would never see “Pet Sematary” because she
hates horror movies, especially ones that misspell words in the title.
Whereas Megan had Mr. Trump, and Emily had one of the New Kids, Jen had
my brother Gus. For some reason, she adored him. I kept telling her he’s
disgusting, and was named after a football-playing mule, but she doesn’t
listen. Gus came in after “Mr. Belvedere” to watch “Just the Ten of Us” with
us because he had a thing for Brooke Theiss and Jamie Luner, the pervert.
Jen started flirting with Gus and he hit her with a pillow. She hit him
back, and then he hit me. When I hit him back, Jen hit me and all hell broke
loose. The five of us kept knocking each other silly with pillows until we
were dizzy and there were feathers everywhere. This was bad, because Gus was
so dizzy, he fell down and knocked over my barrel of tar. Now we looked like
five drunken chickens and Mom was going to kill us.

“Gus, you idiot!” I said. “This is why I told you not to bother us.”
“Oh, shut up, dweeb,” he fired back. “You’re the one who made me fall.”
“Yeah, Steph,” Jen said. “Leave him alone. It was your fault.”
“What?” I was outraged. “I don’t believe this. My best friend and my
stupid football-playing-mule brother?”
“I told you, Steph,” Gus said. “I was born two years before that movie
came out.”
“So?” I said. “You’re still a dumb mule.”
“Hey, Gus,” Jen said. “Wanna come to the movies with us tomorrow?”
“What are you seeing?” Gus asked her.
“’Teen Witch,’” she replied.
“Isn’t that hottie from ‘Lucus’ and ‘Goonies’ in that?”
“No, Gus,” I said, knowing my stuff. “The hottie is Kerri Green, and she
was in ‘Lucas’ and ‘Goonies.’ Robyn Lively is in ‘Teen Witch.’”
“Shut up, loser,” he said.

 

“You shut up!” I screamed and began pelting him with my pillow again.
This only started the whole thing up again until we were all completely
exhausted, and Gus decided to leave, clean himself up, and go to bed.
“Way to go, Steph,” Jen said.
“Jen,” I said. “Why don’t you marry my brother if you’re so in love with
him?”
“Maybe I will.”
I didn’t have a reply to this. Everyone showered and went to sleep. The
night wasn’t quite what I wanted it to be, but the next day we went to see
“Teen Witch,” and we were friends again, ready for a great summer.

Chickenhead's Ode to Calligraphy

Those who knew him know know know that Chickenhead was bat shit crazy. Ode need only read this little story to understand that.

 

 

Monday, 3/26 - Calligrapher's Code

 

It was my genius idea to take a calligraphy class this semester. For some reason, the class required two books totaling forty dollars. Even with the relatively low cost for an English major’s paperbacks, as compared to the fifty-plus-dollar math and science books, this was not in my budget. So I skipped the bookstore, and my friends Rick and John accompanied me to the college library. To my chagrin, the book was out. Wonderful, now we had to go to the town library. You would think that a town filled with extras from Deliverance wouldn’t bother building a library, but, sure enough, the Jethro Bodine Memorial Library stood within walking distance from campus.

 

 

The library didn’t seem to devote itself to having sections. My first random glance at the shelves found Don’t Shoot, It’s Just Me by Bob Hope, How To Catch Clams By The Bushel, and Kabuki Theatre of Japan all catalogued next to each other. We set about our task to find the elusive calligraphy books.

“What are these books called?” Rick asked me.

“The Calligrapher’s Code,” I replied.

“What’s it about, Caligula?”

“No,” John interrupted. “It’s like a lie-detector test.”

“When is your first assignment due?” was Rick’s next question.

“In three weeks.”

“Oh, please. You’ve got plenty of time.”

“I’m not into procrastinating.”

“Oh, come on,” John said. “Everyone does it.”
“

I said PRO-CRAST-in-ating, you nitwit.”

“Hey,” Rick said. “I should probably look for a book for my Vietnamese sign language class.”

“Look, here it is.” As soon as Rick left, I found it. I knew he was bad luck. “The Calligrapher’s Code.”

“I know what that is now,” John said. “That’s when you have more than one wife.”

“Idiot,” I said. “It’s like writings and shit. You’ve got Roman, Gothic, Celtic, Arabic, Islamic. You can use it for diplomas and wedding invitations.”

“You ain’t graduating, and who would marry you? And who would you invite? Dennis Johnson?”

 

“Celtic!” I said. “With a K sound. Not like the Celtics. Hey, it says ‘Oriental brush lettering and Roman stone carving are equally a part of what we call calligraphy today’.”

“Yeah, great,” John said. “Do you think they have The Rock’s book here?”

“I somehow doubt it.”

“Hey, remember card catalogs?”

“Vaguely. Those were the days. Where’s Rick? Let’s get out of here.” We caught up with Rick and stood in line patiently, discussing those who are screwed now that Vince McMahon owns WCW, when it happened. A large, hideous creature entered, and not too politely.

“Holy shit!” John said.

“Dude, what the hell is that?” Rick followed.

“Oh, dear,” I said. “Is that…”

“I am Hrothgar!” the beast interrupted me.

“I was gonna say that,” I protested.

“Who the hell is Hrothgar?” Rick asked.

“I killed Beowulf, John F. Kennedy, and Jimmy Hoff-…I, um, I killed Beowulf.”

“Did he kill Beowulf?” I asked.

“I didn’t read the book,” John said.

“What’s the Bay of Wolf?” Rick said.

“And now,” Hrothgar exclaimed, “I will kill you all!”

“Excuse me,” John said as he fled from the scene.

“You pus…” I tried to yell at him, but Hrothgar stopped me.

“Watch the potty mouth in front of Hrothgar,” the beast was apparently offended. We stood in the middle of the library, fearing for our lives. Rick produced a set of rosary beads from his pocket.

“Dude,” I said, “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

“I’m not,” then he threw the beads at Hrothgar futily.

“Rick,” I said sternly, “He’s not a vampire, and this isn’t Mardi Gras. We’re dead." Suddenly, someone fell down the stares and landed right at Hrothgar’s feet.

“Is it a bird?” I asked. “A decrepit, old, very sick bird?”

“Is it a plane?” Rick said. “Probably the exact plane the Wright Brothers crashed before the successful flight?”

No, it was Root Beer Float Man, here to either save or die along with us.

“Never fear,” our hero said. He then punched Hrothgar in the testicles and we ran like hell. We got halfway to our dorm when Rick and I turned around and Root Beer Float Man was gone. Seconds later, John showed up.

“John, where the hell were you?” I asked him.

“I had to get a book,” he said. “Mein Kampf.”

“Mm-him,” I said. “And who wrote Mein Kampf?”

“Magellan.”

“Uh-huh, and where is this book?”

“Hrothgar’s dog Gmork ate it. What do you want from me? Can we just go?”

“Okay, Atreju,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here. I think Gmork was a wolf, by the way. Not a dog.”

“Bite me.”

We never spoke of the incident again.

The Curse of the Hornswoggled Honcho

After a long hiatus, The Wither Port Review returns with more newly-discovered writings from the great Chickenhead Antonucci. Here we learn how Chickenhead was nearly arrested for stalking a rock goddess.

March 25

The Curse of the Hornswoggled Honcho

It had been nearly a year since my roommate Steve was burned by an unruly gang of Puritans for being a warlock. He had toiled all semester to try to break the Curse of the Bambino. Well, Steve would have been glad to know he died for a good cause. Eight months later, the Boston Red Sox won the World Series, and eighty-three years of disappointment was a distant memory. By Christmas, however, word had been going around about another curse, “the Curse of the Hornswoggled Honcho.”

Through word of mouth, Honcho somehow became Hondo. This in itself was a mystery no one would ever solve. Who was the Honcho, and exactly how did he come to being known as Hondo? This didn’t matter. I would solve this case either way. The rumor became that the curse had something to do with Yosemite Sam and either John Havlicek or John Wayne. My gut told me it was Havlicek, a former Boston Celtics star with the nickname Hondo. All these curses seem to have Boston roots.

On question puzzled me. Why Havlicek? Why not Russell or Cousy or Bird or McHale? I had my other roommate, Charlie, help me do some research on witches and warlocks. All he found were a couple of movies about witches and a Bewitched marathon on TV Land. The Bewitched marathon was no help. They were the later, hippy episodes with the second Darrin. The movies were The Witches of Eastwick and The Craft. I threw out the first one immediately. I could never watch a Cher movie. That dame just makes me ill. Charlie and I sat and watched The Craft together, and there was something about it that caught my interest. I studied the cast: Robin Tunney, Fairuza Balk, Neve Campbell and Rachel True. It was a dead end. Charlie studied them also, then excused himself into his bedroom. I knew he would be no help.

Then I realized what it was. It was the soundtrack, the music. Something in the soundtrack to this film would lead me to the answer. I went to my CD collection, where I happened to have The Craft soundtrack. I made sure to keep in mind the mysterious Boston connection. There were two artists that I knew of on this CD that were from Boston, both of which I was quite familiar with. They were Letters To Cleo and Juliana Hatfield. There it was, clear as day. JH. Juliana Hatfield. John Havlicek.

I didn’t know what this curse was all about, or why I was trying to break it. I just knew I had little time. The next evening Miss Hatfield was playing at the Paradise in Boston with her old band, the Blake Babies. This was my chance. I drove there alone and waited by the back door. An hour later, there she was. She was a pretty thing, much smaller than one would expect in person. Like I suspected she would, she brought her dog. I didn’t know the dog’s name, nor did I care. I pulled out the juicy steak I brought with me and waved it around. Sure enough, the dog came towards me. I threw the piece of meat in the dumpster. The dog leaped in to get it, and I closed the door, trapping the canine.

When Juliana came running, I grabbed her, tied her up and put tape on her mouth, then stuffed her in the back seat of my car. I drove to a secluded area and stopped, jumping in the back seat with her. When I pulled the tape off of her mouth, she didn’t have many kind words for me. That was for sure. I gave her a big kiss to shut her up.

“Miss Hatfield,” I said. “I’m your number one fan. I love you. I have thirty-two of your CDs. That’s including EPs and bootlegs. I have three T-shirts, one that you actually signed, and three posters. I also have some videos, including bootlegs from ’93 and ’95 of you in Philly and Washington, and an in-store in Bridgeport. I’ve seen you live four times. Well, actually, I saw you twice in Cambridge, at the Middle East, and then twice in one day during your Newbury Comics tour last year. I was in Shrewsbury and Natick. My favorite CD of yours is Become What You Are. I love “My Sister” and “For The Birds.” Those are my favorite songs, but I also love “Little Pieces” and “Feelin’ Massachusetts.” Did I mention that I love you?”

I was rambling on like a madman. It wasn’t long before the police arrived. Someone saw me leave and gave them my plate number. I was busted, and they weren’t buying my curse story. I knew I had to come clean.

There was no Curse of the Hornswoggled Hondo, or Honcho. It was all in my head, a sort of psychotic, delusional reasoning to kidnap Miss Hatfield. I needed help. The whole thing, John Havlicek, The Craft, Letters To Cleo, just absurd pieces in my maniacal puzzle. I began this thing convincing myself I’d be a hero. I ended up a sad, pathetic, strange and creepy stalker and kidnapper. My roommate Steve had good intentions. He died a hero in Boston and all of New England. I was as low as Charles Stewart, the Boston Strangler, and John Salvi. Maybe even Bill Buckner. Massachusetts didn’t have the death penalty, but I knew, when the time came, I would be going straight to hell. Then I’d realize my life-long dream of stalking Sylvia Plath.

Like Sands Through the Hourglass

Chickenhead, March 22, 2001





Ben went walking through the woods, searching for the Hustler magazines he kept buried there when he was a child. Along his route, he came upon a bottle. It was a dirty, empty Budweiser bottle. As he flicked some of the ants off of it, the bottle started shaking, and smoke came out of it.

Suddenly before him was a big, muscular, blue man screaming that he is a genie and that Ben freed him from the bottle.

“My good fellow,” the genie said. “If you could be stranded on a desert island with anyone in the world, who would you choose?”

“Dead or alive?”

“Well, sure, but why would you want to be on an island with only a dead body?”

Ben thought about it for a moment. “Well, Mr. Genie, for as long as I can remember, I’ve had a thing for Melissa Reeves.”






“Uh, who?” the genie asked.

“She’s a soap opera actress. When I was little, and home sick from school with pneumonia for two weeks, my mother got me hooked on ‘Day of Our Lives.”

She played Jennifer Horton, later to be Jennifer Horton Deveraux.

"You're mother?"

"No, Melissa Reeves! Of course, back then she was Melissa Brennan. I was completely in love with her, and was quite depressed when she left the show when I was in college. Now, wonderfully, she’s back, and…”

“All right, all right,” the genie interrupted. “I didn’t ask for your life story. Poof. Off you go.”

“Wait a minute,” Ben objected as the genie zapped him to his dream place.







The next thing he knew, he was on a desert island. “Hey! Hey, genie!” he screamed. “I thought we were talking hypothetically! Get me out of here, you blue bastard!”

He sat in the sand, unbelieving of what had happened to him. His mother told him pornography would ruin his life. He heard footsteps coming from behind him. He turned around and saw her. It was Melissa Reeves, and she didn’t look very happy.

“What is this? How did I get here? Who are you? What the hell is going on?” she screamed.

“Um, hi Ms. Reeves,” Ben said. “I’m Ben. I’m a big fan.”

“Oh, well, everything’s all right, then. I have a fan. What are we doing on this frigging island?”

“I kind of, accidentally, unknowingly made a wish.”

“You made a wish? What are you, three? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. I’m supposed to be on the set right now. I’m voting you off this island, pervert. Don’t you have two more wishes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, summon Barbara Eden, or whoever, and wish for a magic carpet or something to get us out of here.”

“Oh, g-genie,” Ben said. “Can I have my other wishes?”

“You watch too much television or have heard too many jokes,” the genie called down. “That’s it, Gilligan. You only get one wish.”

“But I never actually said ‘I wish,’ did I? That must make this wish invalid, right?”

“Who are you Ally McBeal? I’m the boss here. My rules. I am the law. And stop crying. This is what you wanted. You’re with your dream woman.”

“It’s not exactly consensual.”

“Look, why don’t you go write for David E. Kelley, if you know so much about the law?”

And that was it. The genie left and never came back. Ben and Melissa spent the rest of their lives on that island. They came to love and depend on each other. They even had five children, which was perfect, years later, when the Harlem Globetrotters arrived.

Chickenhead Loved His Wrestling

We say "loved," because we think Chickenhead might be dead. No one knows for sure. What we can gather from this differently-formatted story is that he had a hankering for pro wrestling.







March 21, 2011

MAG DOG MORAN STRIKES AGAIN
TIME: MONDAY NIGHT, 10:55 PM
PLACE: FLEET CENTER, BOSTON



Jim Ross: Jim Ross back here with you, ladies and gentlemen, with
our guest commentator, Jerry Seinfeld.

Jerry Seinfeld: It’s good to be here. Why do they call it a wrestling
ring? I mean, it’s shaped like a square.

JR: Well, Jerry, they call it “the squared circle.”

JS: How can it be a square AND a circle? Why not call it the triangular
rhombus?

JR: Good point, Jerry. Folks, our main event tonight is just moments
away. You saw the contract signing last week on RAW. Vince McMahon
oversaw the signing between super crime-fighter Root Beer Float Man
and Academy-Award winning actress Audrey Hepburn. Once the contract
was signed, RBF sucker-punched Ms. Hepburn, and then all hell broke
loose, with Steve Austin, Triple H, and The Rock all getting
involved.

JS: What kind of name is The Rock? I mean, when he was born, did his
mother say “What should we name him? I know. How about ‘The’?” And
what about Steve Austin? I think Lee Majors has a legitimate
lawsuit against this guy. I mean, hey. What is that all about? And
Triple H? What was his father’s name? Quadruple Q?

JR: Folks, as the combatants stand in the ring, you know that this is
going to be a slobberknocker. Oh! And Root Beer Float Man again
attacks, from behind, Ms. Hepburn, who was absolutely brilliant
in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

JS: Why would you have breakfast at Tiffany’s? I mean, excuse me, but I
think I’ll go to the I-Hop.”

JR: And it looks like this match is over before it started. The referee
has disqualified RBF, who is using that keg of root beer as a
weapon on Audrey.

JS: Who is Root Beer Float Man’s sidekick? The Cream Soda Kid?

JR: Man, we need to get some help out here. He’s supposed to be a crime
fighter, but he’s public enemy number one in my book.

JS: What book is that? The book of fat guys from Oklahoma who wear
stupid cowboy hats and announce men in tights pretending to hit
each other and third-rate football games?

JR: Well, thank you, Jerry. Wait a minute! It’s Mad Dog Moran! Mad Dog
Moran has returned! He’s got a steel chair and RBF doesn’t see him!
He turns around and Oh! To the skull with the steel chair! Mad Dog
Moran strikes again! He was out three weeks, courtesy of RBF and
his finishing maneuver, The Mug Shot. Revenge is sweet. You’ve
heard of Beauregard’s revenge. This was Mad Dog Moran’s revenge.
Folks, what will this mean for the pay-per-view this Sunday?

JS: Why do they call it a pay-per-view?

JR: Because you pay for each viewing.

JS: Oh.

JR: Folks, officials are helping Ms. Hepburn. The Mad Dog strikes
again. We’re out of time. See you Thursday on Smackdown!

Beauregard's Revenge

A lot of our readers have asked who this Chickenhead Antonucci is and where did all his writing suddenly come from? Some of you have asked this very rudely with curse words and threats of physical harm. All we can tell you is that a disk with the name "Shikin Hedd Antonuc" written on it was found a couple of weeks ago with short, dated pieces of writing. The last piece, we think, is a suicide note, but wse can't be sure.

Oops. I've said too much.





March 19, 2001

Beauregard (We’ll call him Bo, so we don’t have to keep typing
Beauregard) was an avid Kiss fan. He had hundreds, perhaps thousands, of
CDs, videos, dolls, T-shirts and posters. In fact, because the band members
are the biggest whores in the entertainment industry, you could fill the
White House with all the Kiss merchandise Bo owned.

One day, the three of us, Sid, Jimmy, and myself, were relaxing in the TV
room, watching “Days of Our Lives,” when Bo came stomping in with rope. With
his head practically steaming, he tied each of us to the chairs we were
sitting in.

“Uh, Bo,” I said. “Care to explain?”

“Which of you fascist pigs stole my CD?”

“What CD?” Jimmy asked.

“My Kiss ‘Revenge’ CD, where is it?”

“Jesus, Bo,” I said. “You know we wouldn’t touch any of your Kiss crap,
the reason for which is obvious.”

“You’re lying! Where is it?”

“Dude,” Sid said. “Remember last week when you lost the goldfish? Need I
explain further?”

Bo smacked Sid across the face.

“All right,” I said. “That’s enough. Bo, untie us and we’ll help you find it.”

“Never!”

“Untie me, you melodramatic bastard!”

Bo lit a match and set the chair across from us on fire, threatening to
move it closer to us every minute we don’t tell him the truth. He was
insane. I was able to get the Swiss army knife out of my pocket and
carefully cut myself free. Whenever Bo wasn’t looking, I looked through the
PlayStation 2 CDs on the floor. Finally, I came upon the missing CD.

“Uh, Bo?”

“How did you break free, swine?”

“Dude, your Kiss CD is right here in the Tekken case.”

“Oh,” he said, calming down finally. “I see.”

“I see?” Jimmy said. “That’s it? I see? Put the frigging fire out!”

Bo put the fire out as I untied the others. It was all a big misunderstanding. We went to Outback Steak House that night and had a good laugh about the whole incident.

Chasing Frankie the Fin's Murderer

Let me tell you something, Chicken Antonucci doesn't care whether or not you read the shit he wrote ten years ago. He was drunk when he wrote it and he's drunk right now. So go shit in your hat.

That said, here is a Chickenhead detective story.







March 12, 2001

It took me two years, but I finally caught up with Little Billy
Johnson. He was a cagey six-year-old who was wanted for illegally
transporting shipments of paste and Cherry Kool-Aid, scalping tickets to
Duck Duck Goose games, and the murder of Frankie the Fin. I had waited a
long time for this moment. You don't avoid Joe Hollandaise for very long.
I had Little Billy in my interrogation room. This was my world and not
even a crafty criminal mind like his could put one over on me. He sat in
the chair all calm and collected. He even had a big grin on that baby
face of his. He put a candy cigarette in his mouth and looked at me
coldly.

"All right, Little Billy, talk," I said. "Where were you on the night
Frankie the Fin was murdered?"

"You have a funny voice." "Listen, kid. This voice won't sound so funny
when you're hearing it from behind bars. Now, tell me about Frankie the Fin."

"You're weird."

"I know you are, but what am I?" I saw that I was getting nowhere. I
moved the light up real close to him to see if I could sweat it out of
him. "Talk, you," I said before he giggled and honked my nose. That was
it. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

I walked out without saying a word. When I came back he was hiding
under the table. He should have known. You can't hide from Joe
Hollandaise. I stood back and showed him what I brought with me: I had a
package of Hostess Cup Cakes in one hand, and a Teddy Bear in the other.
He came out from his hiding place and sat back in the chair.
"Look, kid. This is how it's gonna go. If you tell me who killed
Frankie the Fin, you can have these cupcakes. If you don't, Mr. Teddy
Bear gets it." He just sat there grabbing for the goods. I knew I had to
play rough. I whipped out my pistol and pointed it at the Teddy Bear's
head. This trick worked. The kid was balling his eyes out. I had him. I
had him good. But before he could spill it, we were interrupted.

"Hi, Joey."

"Oh, hi, Mr. And Mrs. Johnson."

"I hope Blly didn't give you too much trouble.

"No, not at all."

He was off the hook for now. But I'd be watching him.

In Favor of Heathcliff

On March 12, 2001 Sir Chickenhead Antonucci wrote two stories. One of them we will document here today. It is called "In Favor of Heathcliff."





As I collected this week’s assignment, I noticed the same students, as
always, had nothing to turn in. One in particular caught my eye with his
nonchalant I-didn’t-do-itness. It was Troy Martin, the rebel in the class.
Marlon Brando in The Wild One. In his leather jacket, Triple-H
T-shirt, blue jeans and black Timberland boots, his attire reflected his
attitude. He was drinking arrogantly from a bottle of Naya, possibly filled
with vodka, knowing these kids and their drinking. Perhaps he’ll go to the
cafeteria later for an orange drink and make Sunny-D screwdrivers.

“Mr. Martin,” I said. “Do you have your assignment?”

“I wasn’t aware that we had one, Sir.”

“You know darn well you were to write a paper on Wuthering Heights that
was due today. Did you even read it?”

“My, uh…”

“If you plan on using ‘My dog ate my homework,’ you can save it. You’ve
used that excuse already, and I happen to know you don’t have a dog. Mr.
Martin, this is the fifth assignment you’ve had in this class this semester.
This non-existent dog of yours ate the first one. I believe you said
neo-Nazis stole the second one. I was shocked when you actually did
assignments three and four. Yes, I was even more shocked to see that for the
paper about The Awakening, you wrote about Hank, the angry, drunken dwarf,
from The Howard Stern Show. Then for your paper on Portrait of the Artist as
a Young Man, you wrote a compelling essay on mashed potatoes vs. Stove Top
stuffing. Now, what is the excuse or lame topic for this particular paper?”
He stood up and handed me a piece of paper, I was amazed that, not only
had he actually typed it, but it was titled “In Favor Of Heathcliff.” He
knew one of the characters! As I read it, however, my enthusiasm sank. He
was in favor of Heathcliff all right, but over Garfield. He wrote a
comparative essay about cartoon cats! What was worse, he couldn’t even fill
a page with this topic. By the third paragraph, he had changed focus to his
poll results for who was hotter: Kirsten Dunst or Jennifer Love Hewitt. The
results were tied 2-2, so even this horrid excuse for an essay was a
failure.







As I came upon the end of Troy’s dazzling submission, which promised it
was “to be continued” with Felix vs. Top Cat and Jessica Alba vs. Tara Reid
(apparently he was having a tournament), I felt myself becoming rather ill.
I let out a scream, and leaped out of the window. The fall didn’t kill me;
we were on the first floor. I got up and ran away, yanking the hair out of
my own head. Teaching is no longer for me.

Lent, Pizza and 80s Rock

In our Friday installment of "Worshipping Chickenhead Antonucci," CHA examines Lent, alien hunting, and the tragic breakup of the band Journey.


March 9 - First Contact





Jimmy said he was going to give up searching for aliens for Lent. It was
either that or give up his peeping, but, with it getting warmer, and
considering what Jimmy calls our “hot new neighbor,” that was not a valid
possibility. Everyone in the family had to give up something. I was giving
up junk food, Mom suspended her embargo on “that disgusting sexual act” with
Dad, and Dad, as always, gave up cigars. That he never once smoked a cigar
in his life was not The Lord’s business, he always said.

Lent was never a good time of the year. Worse than giving up something,
was not eating meat on Friday. Mom was a strict enforcer of this rule. Every
Friday at school was pizza day. My brother and I were the only ones who
answered “Plain” when asked plain or pepperoni. We’d beg the lunch lady for
some mushrooms, black olives, even anchovies.

One Friday night, Jimmy decided that if he couldn’t have a hamburger, he
was going alien hunting. I grabbed a Hostess Snowball and a Charleston Chew
and followed him. We wandered aimlessly around the woods for about six
hours. By midnight it seemed our little journey was little more than a more
tiring version of the Great Pumpkin. Not one alien. Not one flying saucer.
Not even a rubber octopus hanging on a piece of string. And while my brother
pointed out that we did find a Burger King, a paper bag with a thousand
dollars in it, and a naked cult dancing around and sacrificing rabbits, I
considered the evening a total bust.



March 11 - The Journey’s End





My sister Lucy cried when the band Journey broke up. That it happened
right after Sammy Hagar replaced David Lee Roth in Van Halen added
to her already piercing agony. This was nothing like when they
cancelled Square Pegs. This was cause for a major bout of depression. Sure,
like many kids at the time, she would get into the glam-rock hair bands that
would follow: the Poisons, the Warrants, the Cinderellas, hell, even the
Danger Dangers. To her, it was not the same. Journey was an institution.
Steve Perry was a god. I certainly didn’t see it; he was no Huey Lewis.
When Nirvana became popular, Lucy wasn’t buying it. She buried herself in
her old Journey albums, and wouldn’t think of buying the CDs. I can remember
hearing “Open Arms” and “Separate Ways” constantly. Finally, in 1996,
Journey got back together, and Lucy rejoiced. It was amazing how
happy she became. Alas, two years later, Steve Perry left Journey, and, once
again, Lucy was left depressed.

I considered myself to be very comforting and understanding of Lucy’s
pain, which is why it surprised me when Nina Gordon left my favorite band
Veruca Salt and she mocked me mercilessly. I threw her Journey records into
the fireplace and we haven’t spoken since.




Up next...The Joys of Teaching

Nonsensical Conversation Between Two Dummies

Today we look at Chickenhead's silly battle between Spielberg and Kubrick.








March 6, 2001

"That movie sucks!" I said.
"What?" Sam was shocked. "How can you say Close
Encounters sucks?"
"Chode Encounters of the Terd Kind sucks."
"Okay, what are you, seven, Beavis?" I was only trying
to get a rise out of him. I had never even seen this film.
"And you know what else sucks? E.T," I kidded.
"What?"
"And Spielberg's a hack." Now I really had him pissed.
"You dirty bastard. You are completely insane."
"Calm down, Dawson," I tried to maintain control.
"By the way, 1941, what the hell was that?"
"All right, just stop!" He was really upset. Spielberg
was a very touchy subject with him. Perhaps I had taken
it a bit too far. Touchy bastard.
"Sam, I'm sorry," I said. "I took things a malenky bit
too far. Spielberg's obviously a great filmmaker."
"You're right." he replied. "You did take it a malenky
bit too far. Oh, and A Clockwork Orange and Stanley Kubrick
suck big time."
I punched him square in the face.

The Percolator Files, Part I

It was about a year ago that we half-heartedly launched The Wither Port Review. Then we realized we don't want to read the endless submissions that would come in, and we ceased production.

Then we discovered The Percolator Files, stories penned by an author named Chickenhead Antonucci between February and September of 2001. In the coming weeks these stories will appear on The Wither Port Review unedited, just as they appeared ten years ago.

Thank you, and stay tuned...





Feb 23, 2001 -

I Don't Remember

"I don't remember, Sir," I said weakly.
"Who am I, Peppermint Patty? I'm your mother. Don't call
me Sir." She was going ballistic. "Did you eat the lemon
merange pie?"
I knew I had exhausted "I don't know" in the previous
interrigations. She's a nut for those stupid Family Circus
cartoons. "I don't remember" seemed to suggest there was
something wrong with my brain. If temporary insanity worked
in a courtroom, "I don't remember" just might work on my
mother.
"I don't remember."
Nope. Up to my room again. No innocent until proven guilty
in this courtroom.






A man, who was the spitting image of Paul Lynde, floated
about fifty feet in front of me. He was wearing a turban
and beige bikini bottoms. But then, maybe he wasn't. I had
been drinking. He yelled something to me. I could not hear
him. I tried to read his lips. It looked like "brain." Is
he questioning my intelligence? Has he found a human brain
in the woods? Does he want to discuss the dog from Inspector
Gadget? Perhaps it's "plane" or "plain." Is he Herve
Villechaize or am I passing out bags of M&Ms? The rain in
Spain falls mainly on the plain? I turned my head and, for
a brief second, heard "Train!" It was far too late.





Chris Jericho came at me with abandon. Actually, it was
my friend Rick, but when he leaps off the sofa and clothes-
lines me like a maniac, he likes to pretend he's Chris Jericho.
Sometimes I think pro-wrestling should be banned.
"Dude, what are you, twelve?" I said to him. "Stop coming
at me with adandon."
"I'm not coming at you with abandon," he replied. "I'm
coming at you with RECKLESS abandon!"
"Explain the difference." He replied by dropkicking me into
the bookshelf and James Joyce's Ulysses almost knocked me
unconscious. It seemed odd, watching wrestling in a room in
which Ulysses is on the bookshelf, kind of like Hulk Hogan
playing Hamlet. I gave Rick a savate kick and them Leopold
Bloomed him on the side of the head with the book. He yelled
"No foreign objects!", took a swig of Pepsi, and spat it right
in my face.
"What the hell was that?" I asked.
"Yoshihiro Tajiri!"
"You sick bastard. Do that again and I'll change it to Ally
McBeal," I bluffed. I was taping Ally in another room. I
wouldn't spoil it by watching any of it now, but this wrestling
was clearly out of hand. We needed to be without abandon
prontissimo, and since he thinks Ally is a "chick show," the
stupid, macho prick, this was a very good threat.
He behaved until the main event, when he tried to put me in
the Crippler Crossface, after which I threw him out like Fred
does the cat at the end of the Flintstones.






After the earth moved

We were all a malenky bit shaken up after the earth moved.
It was weird. It just kind of moved really fast and then
stopped. Scientists were baffled. They said it was as if
the earth saw an asteroid coming at it and quickly got out
of the way. They said it was more bizarre than the day
the earth stood still, but not quite in the league of the
day the earth opened up and swallowed half its people
whole.






"They're coming for you, you rat bastard," a voice said
from behind me. "They're coming for you, and they'll find
you. I'll make sure of it."
It was Bill, the new temp, who everyone in the office
already thought was on odd character.
"Bill," I said. "We've been over this. There is no one
coming for me, Susan in Accounting, or anyone in the office.
Not the pigs, not the Nazis. There are no Puritans who want
to set me on fire because I'm a warlock."
"Oh, really?" he replied. "You'd like to believe that,
wouldn't you? That would be a good thing."
"Yes," I said. "And you know what else is a good thing?
Soup."
"How dare you mock the Grand Wizard!"
"All right, someone needs a time out, and a shirt. You're
freaking me out."
"They are coming!"
"Hey, Chicken Little," I was now upset. "I'm sitting here
minding my own business, watching my computer guess the
dictator or sitcom character. I don't need this."
"The Wizard cares not for your needs."
"Look, I sympathize with you. I used to be a temp. It sucks.
You ever see the movie Clockwatchers?"
"No."
"Good film, rent it. But you must stop this absurd behavior.
And stop sending me those Sylvia Plath peoms. Ask Wilson to
give you his shrink's card."
"I will give Bill my shrink's card."
"I will give Bill...look, you're not Obi-Wan Kenobi. Just
get back to work or stare at the wall. Do it quietly."
He started to walk away, then lunged at me and bit me on
the neck. I screamed as I kicked him off of me and tried to
nurse my wound. Suddenly I felt something weird come over me.
It was as if I was becoming someone, or something, else.
What was happening? Was I turning into a vampire? A giant insect?
The Incredible Hulk? No, it was worse. I was now Dick Clark.
"You bloody fool!" I yelled at the imbecile, Bill. "You've
doomed me to an eternity of making blooper shows and hosting
New Year's Eve specials and Miss Teen USA pageants! But wait."
I stopped to ponder the situation more carefully. "Bill, you
magnificent bastard! I'm filthy, stinking rich! So long,
suckers!" As I walked out of the office, Bill, who apparently
couldn't stand to see that I was happy with my new circumstances,
stuck a needle into my arm.
"Ow," I said. "TV's Dick Clark doesn't like needles."
I felt it again. I was changing. I would no longer be Dick
Clark. I vomited slightly and looked in the mirror. Holy crap,
I was Groucho Marx! And the moustache wasn't painted on. It was
real. Bill the temp laughed and disappeared into thin air. This
was how I would spend the rest of my life. That fortune cookie
was right.

THE UNPUBLISHABLES PART IV: EASTER/PATRIOTS DAY

Someday people will read this like mad and say, "Yeah, I've always read his blog."





John walked in wearing some hideous-looking thing on his head. He looked uncomfortable walking around with it. I had to laugh at the way he pretended it looked normal.

“Dude, what is that?”

“What?”

“On your head, what the hell is that?”

“It’s a bandana.”

“Yes, and it’s moving weird. Is that a water bandana?”

“Maybe.”

“Where did you get that?”

“None of your business.”

“You know, my uncle has one of those, only he fills his with goat blood.”

“Shut up.”

“Be careful not to head butt anyone wearing a crown of thorns.”

“Hey, guys,” Barry interrupted, ruining my fun. “What was the name of the cat who dated Cleo on Heathcliff?”

“What?” I replied.







“You had Heathcliff with Iggy Nutmeg and Spike. There were those three loser cats: Hector, Wordsworth and Mongo. Cleo was the hottie.”

“You liked her, did you?” I said.

“She was cute.”

“Hey,” I said. “My aunt has a poodle that puts out. You want me to…?”

“Shut up. This is important.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Cleo’s boyfriend, the leader. What was his name?”









“All right, go away,” I said, trying to get rid of him. “By the way,” I continued, turning back to John, “why a Confederate flag bandana, Buford?”

“I like it. I feel like I’m from Hazard County.”

“We’ve discussed this. The General Lee may as well have had a giant swastika on the hood. You’re a lifelong northerner. Take that off.”

“My mom’s from the South.”

“Baltimore is, like, right on the Mason-Dixon Line. Do you like country music?”

“No, it sucks.”

“Do you watch auto racing?”

“No, it’s stupid.”

“That thing’s starting to leak, isn’t it?”

“A little bit, yes.”

The entire bandana popped, and John stood soaked in his own headwear.

“And the Yankees win!” I yelled.

“Very funny.”

“Where did you get that, seriously?”

“It was an Easter present.”

“An Easter present? Did you get an Easter basket too? With chocolate bunnies, and Eastroturf, and li’l marshmallow peeps?”

“As a matter of fact I did.”

“That’s cute,” I said. “My girlfriend got me a Patriot’s Day present.”

“Who the hell gets a Patriot’s Day present?”

“I got it for running in the Boston Marathon.”

“You didn’t run in the marathon.”

“Yes, Sir, from Hopkinton to Ashland.”

“That’s less than a mile.”

“I ran 1.2 miles. Bite me. And dry yourself off.”

“So what did she get you?”

“She got me this family of sock puppets called the Sockdolagers.”

“A family? Where are they?”

“In the basement. They built themselves a dojo, and they’ve been training 24-7.”

“What? Get out. Training for what?”

“Like, battles and shit. They’re like the Mighty Heroes.”

“You mean Strong Man, Rope Man, Tornado Man…”

“Diaper Man and Cuckoo Man, that’s right.”










“I used to love that. You can’t find it anymore.”

“No, it’s sad.”

“Do the socks have cool names?”

“I haven’t named them yet. I was thinking of naming them either after former ECW wrestlers circa 1996 or characters Groucho Marx played in films.”

“You’re a weirdo.”

“Okay, wet-Confederate-flag-bandana head. It’s just a matter of what sounds better: Stevie, Perry and Tommy or Captain Spaulding, Rufus T. Firefly and Dr. Hackenbush.”

BAM!!! Suddenly my sock puppets came from downstairs and started fighting us, and winning! John had a bum leg, and I had just eaten a heavy lunch, so we didn’t last very long. We were both beaten senseless, as the Sockdolagers flew out of the house and into the real world.

“I got it!” Barry said, entering finally. “Riff-Raff. Cleo’s boyfriend was Riff-Raff!”