Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Chickenhead Goes Nadsat!

In yet another excruciating find from the debris of Chickenhead's former domicile comes a story of sorts called "Solitude."


Jordan sat at her computer, typing in her journal. She had plenty to write about, having just broken up with her boyfriend of two years, Alex. She kept typing and typing and, before she knew it, she had typed three and a half pages. At twenty-six, she thought she was too old to be carrying on in this way. She thought about the mixed tapes she used to make for her boyfriends in high school, and the ones she made for herself after break-ups. She knew these tapes, with songs by Dokken, Danger Danger, and Beau Nasty, were somewhere in her parents’ house. Well, what did you listen to in the early nineties, or whenever you were in high school? Leave the girl alone.

She then went on the internet to download songs about loneliness, something she had been feeling since even before the break-up. She grabbed anything having to do with being alone, no matter whether she liked it. She copied songs by Laura Branigan, Eric Carmen, Gilbert O’Sullivan and others onto a CD. Quality didn’t matter in times like these, as even Roy Orbison, whom she had always made fun of her father for worshipping, was now bringing tears to her eyes. This was certainly an embarrassing moment for her roommate Marisa to walk in.

“Are you listening to Elvis?” Marisa asked in amazement.

“No,” Jordan replied. “It’s Roy Orbison.”

“What are you, sixty?” Marisa said. “And you’re crying. I’m calling 911.”

“Stop,” Jordan said. “I’m fine. I’m searching for songs about loneliness.”

“Because you broke up with that putz?”


“Well, what about ‘Lonesome Loser,’ by Little River Band?”

“Jeezy creezy, Miss Obscure-Song-Title-Reference-Girl,” Jordan said.

“From where did you pull that suggestion?”

“It was a big hit in, like, the late seventies,” Marisa replied. “My mother still loves them. And what about ‘Hey There, Lonely Girl,” or ‘None But The Lonely Heart,’ or ‘Only The Lonely’?”

“All right, who are you, Casey Kasem?” Jordan said. “Slow down. And I already have ‘Only The Lonely.’ That’s the Roy Orbison song.”

“No,” Marisa said. “There’s also the Motels song from the early eighties. You remember ‘Suddenly Last Summer’?”

“Good Lord,” Jordan said. “You’re like the non-evil version of Rick Dees.”

“Ohh, and don’t forget the theme from ‘The Lone Ranger’ and ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’.”

“All right, you’re drifting, Marisa,” Jordan said. “And no longer helping.”

“But, Jordan, you know what?”

“Chicken butt?”

“Okay, grow up,” Marisa said. “You should make a CD of songs having nothing to do with love or solitude or loneliness, like ‘Helter Skelter’ and

‘Kung-Fu Fighting.’ Ooh, is ‘Shaddup A You Face’ in there?”

“You are nuttier than squirrel shit. You know that?”

“I know,” Marisa continued. “Let’s watch wrestling! Or let’s go to Blockbuster and rent ‘Dick,’ ‘Pecker,’ ‘Private Parts,’ and ‘Snatch’.”

“That’s a malenky bit expensive for a stupid joke,” Jordan said.

“That’s it!” Marisa shouted. “Let’s go on a rampage of ultra-violence a la ‘A Clockwork Orange.’ Invite a couple droogies and bust some devotchkas in the gulliver real horrowshow.”

“Well,” Jordan said. “Look what I’ve started. You’re speaking nadsat now?”

“Viddy well, my little ptitsa,” Marisa continued. “Don’t sit here all nochy being all oddy knocky and platching and razdraz.”

“You’re losing me, and I’ve read the book twice.”

“Tell me you’re interessovated in peeting and getting all pyahnitsa. Let some malchick filly with your groodies and your sharries.”

“All right, that I understood,” Jordan said. “You dirty, filthy girl.”

“Well I’m gonna itty over,” Marisa said. “You can sit here and horn to Bog and platch on your podooshka if you want. As for me, time to tolchock malchicks in the yarbles.”

“Oh, for the love of Bog,” Jordan said. “Let’s go.”

“Not so skorry,” Marisa said. “Give me at least one.”

“All right,” Jordan said. “My brooko is a malenky bit nadmenny.”

“Mm-hmm,” Marisa said. “You just told me your belly is arrogant, but that’s okay. We’re off.”

And the ladies had a wonderful evening out, and, for a while, Jordan forgot about Alex and her loneliness as she and Marisa terrorized children and old people and drank themselves silly, but made it home okay.

Friday, May 11, 2012

"A Hush" - Penned on July 19, 2001

If there was two things Chickenhead liked it was actress Jenilee Harrison and the Nazis. Both are on proud display here in this story found recently in Chickenhead's gay porn drawer. 

7/19 A Hush

“When one flew east and one flew west, a hush fell over the cuckoo’s nest.”

“Excuse me,” a man said. “Did you say my name?”

“What?” Jameson replied. “No, I didn’t say your name. I’m rehearsing a play.”

“A play?”

“Yes,” Jameson replied. “It’s called ‘The Beer Hall Putsch’. Now go away.”

“’The Beer Hall Putsch’? What is it? The sequel to ‘Springtime For Hitler’?”

“Now, look here,” Jameson demanded. “What is your name?”


“I will not hush, damn you. What is your name?”

“It’s Hush,” the man said.

“Your name is Hush?”

“Yes,” Hush told him.

“As in shut the fuck up? That kind of hush?” Jameson asked.

“Indeed,” Hush confirmed again.

“You mean as in the Deep Purple song and the Gwyneth Paltrow film?”

“Damn it, yes,” Hush said, clearly annoyed. “What the hell is your name?”

“The name’s Milano, Jameson Milano.”

“Of the Pepperidge Farm Milanos?” Hush asked.

“Of course not, you fool,” Jameson said. “Now let me get back to my play.”

“Your play about Hitler?”

“It’s not about Hitler, you simpleton.”

“Now, listen,” Hush said. “I happen to know a little bit about this Beer Hall Putsch.”

“I’m not listening to you,” Jameson said.

“In 1923,” Hush started, “Adolf Hitler attempted to overthrow the Bavarian government in Munich. He entered a beer hall, fired a pistol towards the ceiling, and announced that he was revolting.”

“He’s not the only one.”

“Shut up,” Hush continued. “Along with General Ludendorff and three thousand troops, they marched through the streets of Munich and were met by police gunfire. Sixteen men were killed and Hitler was arrested and sentenced to five years in prison, where he wrote Mein Kampf. He was released nine months into the sentence.”

“You’re a loony,” Jameson said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a wacko,” Jameson reiterated. “All this Hitler lunacy, it’s very unhealthy. Do you know who else was obsessed with Hitler? Charles Manson. The Trench Coat Mafia. Jenilee Harrison.”

“What?” Hush objected. “Jenilee Harrison?”

“It’s why she left the Los Angeles Rams, Three’s Company and Dallas. She was forced out. She and her Nazi propaganda.”

“You’re a bloody liar,” Hush said. “It’s not true.”

“All right. Maybe not, but I had you going.”


There was a moment of silence.

“So, you’re name’s really Hush, then, is it?” Jameson asked.


“Like ‘Sweet Charlotte’ and ‘Hush Little Baby,’ that’s your name?”

“What’s wrong with my name?”

“Oh, nothing, Shut Up,” Jameson replied.

“What are you, telling me to shut up?”

“I’m not,” Jameson said. “I’m calling you ‘Shut Up.’ Can I call you Shut Up?”


“Piss off?”


“What about Shhhh?”

“No, no,” Hush said. “Now hold on. How could this play not be about Hitler?”

“Oh, we’re back to this again, are we?” Jameson said. “It takes place in a pub, a beer hall.”

“But what about the putsch?” Hush pointed out. “A putsch is a secretly plotted and suddenly executed attempt to overthrow a government.”

“All right,” Jameson said. “All right, you’ve got me. You finally got me. I’m a Nazi. And for a few shekels, I’ll show you my swastika tattoo, but I must warn you that I could be arrested.”

“You’re a Nazi?”

“Ah, yes,” Jameson continued. “Glorious white power. God bless bleach, Casper the friendly ghost and crack-cocaine. May you put salt and sugar on every single thing you see, kiss an albino, and have intercourse with a polar beer during a blizzard. Hitler, God bless you, you Aryan bastard, wherever you are.”

“You’re completely insane,” Hush said, running away.

“Insane with love for the master race!” Jameson shouted, watching Hush run with fear.

And Jameson carried on, practicing his lines for the play.

Now, my kind reader, you may have been offended by some of what you read here. I can assure you that neither the author nor our friends Jameson and Hush subscribe to any of the beliefs of the Nazi party. Those who contributed to the telling of this story hold no feelings of prejudice against any group of people. Except the Swedes. None of us like them very much. And Jenilee Harrison? A wonderful woman with no affiliation to the Nazis whatsoever. For, as everyone knows, it was the guy who played Mike, the bartender of the Regal Beagle, who was the neo-Nazi hatemonger.