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.