Thursday, May 10, 2018

Brand New Chickenhead Stories Uncovered!

It's been many years since we've able to bring you stories from the long-forgotten writer Chickenhead Antonucci, but we have good news. There is more. And who knows how deep this gold mine goes. What we don't know about these treasures is when they were written. We do have reason to believe that they might have been penned outside the February to September 2001 timeline.


Is it possibly that Chickenhead was more prolific than we thought he was?


Here are some newly-discovered short gems from the great Chickenhead Antonucci. Four all-too brief stories from the warped mind of a genius:












Marshmallow Stew




“Come in, Mr. Daniels,” the doctor said. “What seems to be the trouble with the lad today?”

“Well, doctor,” I explained. “Billy’s been crying and throwing tantrums when he doesn’t get his way. And when I tell him he’s a bad boy, he says ‘I know you are, but what am I?’ He draws on the walls with crayons. He never bathes. He won’t eat his vegetables. He’s been wetting the bed. He mailed a letter to Santa Claus and cried when he didn’t show up Christmas Eve. He begged me to get him a subscription to Highlights. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg.”

“I see,” the doctor said. “And how old is he?”

“Thirty.”

“Well," the doctor sighed. "I’ve seen this before. What he has is what we call 'Playground of the Mind.' He thinks he’s a little boy -- I’d say maybe seven or eight years old. What you need to do is get him to do older boy things. I recommend lots of porn, alcohol, and sports. It’ll probably only bring him to about eighteen, but it’s progress.”

“Will it work?”

“Why, yes. My son watches tons of porn and sports, and drinks like a Lohan. The mental institution says he’s one of their finest imbeciles.”

“Hmm.”

“Now, there is one more thing. I’m recommending daily portions of marshmallow stewpot.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a stew with marshmallows.”

“Marshmallows? With beef and potatoes and carrots?”

“Beef, carrots, M&M'S, Cheez-Its. As long as there are marshmallows in it.”

“You’re a weirdo.”


“Just do it, my boy.”

That night, I bought fifteen bags of marshmallows and rented three of the recommended videos: American Booty, On Golden Blonde, and Splendor in the...well, let's just say Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty weren’t in this version.

I prepared Billy’s stewpot, throwing in whatever we had in the kitchen: Doritos, raisins, Rice Krispies, bacon bits, soy sauce, wheat bread, beer, Chex Mix, Meow Mix, tortilla chips, Pop Tarts, cheese slices, ice cubes, uncooked macaroni and cheese, and Skoal. Along with the marshmallows, I put everything in a big pot on the stove and stirred like crazy. When everything was finished, I handed Billy a bowl, a spoon, and a paper bag; then I hid behind the sofa. Hearing nothing, I peeked over and saw that Billy was enjoying it. This was like a demented Life cereal commercial. Billy liked it! He asked me what I called it, and I said “Marshmallow Stew" because I couldn’t tell him what else was in it.

The next morning, Billy woke me up by banging on my bedroom door.

“What?” I said, opening the door. “What is it?”

“Dude, it’s Saturday,” Billy said.

“Yes,” I replied. “And only nine in the morning. You’re never up before noon on a Saturday. Or Sunday through Friday, for that matter.”

“What do you say we just kick back, watch some porn, have a little beer, and you gimme some marshmallows, bee-otch?”

It was apparent that Billy was now quite fond my hideous marshmallow and miscellaneous concoction. After a week, Billy was addicted, but he really hadn’t changed. In fact, he was more infantile than before, especially when it came to demanding his new favorite food. He even created his own marshmallow demanding song:

Damnit, damnit, son of a bitch,
Oscar’s a grouch and Samantha’s a witch.
Put in the porn and pour me some scotch,
And gimme some Marshmallow Stew, bee-otch!


This was getting ridiculous. I didn’t care about most of the stuff, but I needed the bread and Doritos, and Lucy was very possessive about her Meow Mix. I went back to the doctor, who told me to be patient. According to him, the marshmallows usually took up to a month to work. I had my doubts, but after four weeks, Billy started looking and acting differently. He slowly became much more mature, but also angry and wrinkly. His eyesight and hearing became worse. By the end of the second month, he looked to be about 80 years old. When Billy died, I went to the doctor to complain.

“That’s not what you wanted?” he said.

“No, that’s not what I wanted, you quack!”

“Oh, well. You live and you learn.”

I left the doctor’s office puzzled. How could marshmallows, mixed with anything, increase aging so drastically? Why did this so not bother the doctor? And why am I telling you people this? Who are you? Leave me alone. I’m grieving.











The Ice and The Transformers



 


We have a phrase we're trying to discourage around the house these days. It's called "Monkey see, monkey do," and it's an odd little phrase I used to use when I was an organ grinder, but now we use it for the kids. Anything they see on television, they imitate. That's how we came up with the black list -- the shows they're not allowed to watch. From violent cartoons to professional wrestling to The Three Stooges, we put the parental kibosh on most of them. We even had to stop taking them to the art museum after they saw a Dali painting and we later caught them putting all our clocks in the microwave.


We do let them watch the classic cartoons, because, admittedly, I'm like a five-year-old and I love that stuff. But we've come to regret this as well. It happened after the kids watched the Tom and Jerry episode in which the faucet runs until water fills the kitchen and then it freezes it so Tom, Jerry, and the baby mouse can ice skate. After that, we caught the kids flooding the kitchen and throwing ice and ice cream and other frozen foods on the floor in hopes of doing some figure skating. It was a mess we did not enjoy cleaning up. Next, we decided we would only let them read. But soon after this decision, they read The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Our oldest took a baseball bat to his closet, hoping to bust his way into Narnia.


It was no wonder the kids had an affinity for imitating what they saw on television. My brother and I were the same way at their age. There were the countless times we each tried to go through our walls trying to imitate the old Kool-Aid ads, the time my brother was beaten up at school for dressing like Boy George, and the time we tried to adopt some kids after watching Diff'rent Strokes.


There were two things in particular that led to our downfall. One was the Tom Hanks movie Big. We wanted desperately to be adults -- to drive, to drink, and to watch R- and X-rated movies. One weekend, as luck would have it, the carnival was in town, so we got to visit our father. He brought us to a machine much like the one that granted Tom Hanks his wish.


Now, here's where the second thing comes into play. My brother and I, of course, were big cartoon fans. We'd come home for school every day and watch our favorite trio of shows: Thundercats, G.I. Joe, and Transformers. A Transformer was a giant robot that could transform into something: a car, a plane, a gun. We decided there was nothing bigger or stronger than a Transformer. Long story short, our father couldn't have guessed that the carnival machine would actually work. My brother and I became two giant robots. I turned into a jet plane, my brother a shotgun. We ruined the carnival and terrorized the entire town. God knows how many people were killed. Then, my brother jumped into me and we flew off into the sunset. We were lucky enough to meet two nice robotic girls and we started our own families on an island in Hawaii. We had to kill all the human inhabitants, of course.










The Love Poem


 


My name is Cecil and I have always hated poetry. The problem is my girlfriend's birthday is coming up, and she said, "You don't have to get me anything. Just write me a poem."


Fantastic. So I went to a Starbuck’s, where all the hipster poets go, ready to write. I remembered an assignment I had in high school English to write a love poem. Mrs. Helmsley was upset when I turned in the lyrics to the theme from The Mary Tyler Moore Show. She considered it a step down, even from the first poem I handed in, which was chock full of profanities and graphic sexual images and got me sent to Principal Brewster’s office.


Now I was again tackling what I long considered my archenemy, the art of poetry. For I was in love. I think. Nonetheless, writing a love poem was a struggle. The occasions on which I had even said the word were few and quite long ago: to my mother when I was a child; the time I yelled “I love you, man!” to Kevin Youkilis outside of Fenway Park; the prostitute in Amsterdam.


My gal, Jambalaya, had accused me of being emotionless, loving other, “more important” things more than I loved her, such as my car, my stamp collection, and Natalie Portman.


“Why can’t she see how much I love her?” I said out loud, forgetting I was at a public coffee house. “Why can’t she see,” I continued, much quieter, “that I’m not like the other clowns she’s dated? Why is this poetry nonsense necessary? And why is there another Starbuck’s just across the street from this one?”


I stood up and, after disposing of the napkin on which I was trying to open my heart, shouted “Damn the love poem! Damn poetry in general! Damn…Nipsey Russell, or whoever writes these things! No wonder they all go insane!”


Finally, the manager approached me. “Excuse me, Sir,” he said. “Please calm down or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”


“Are you Starbuck?” I asked him, still hysterical, and now grabbing the man’s shirt and shaking him. “Why are there so many of you people?”


The manager grabbed a triple venti Toffee Nut Latte and threw it in my face, and I screamed and slowly begin to melt. The place emptied as my words became more and more incoherent, and the floor more and more wet.


The next day, newspapers and television were awash with stories of the “melting lunatic,” as experts debated whether poetry and coffee were perhaps a lethal combination. Many, including my loving girlfriend, said that the moral was that if love is strong in your heart, you won’t go crazy and melt on the floor of a Starbuck’s.


There were eight more human meltings that year. They weren’t all poets, and they weren’t all drinking coffee, but they were all named Cecil.










Cup of Warm Love


 


 


"May I have a cup of warm love, please?" Mortimer asked Cecil, the man behind the counter.


 


"Pal," Cecil said, "Why don't you get out of my coffee shop with that kind of talk, huh?"


 


"Sir," Mortimer replied, "I just want a warm cup of love."


 


"Look," Cecil said. "I don't take kindly to guys coming in here propositioning me while wearing only Curious George boxers."


 


"My mom made these. I want a cup of warm love and I want it now! Now! Now! Now!"


 


Mortimer, a 32-year-old man, was now throwing a temper tantrum, nearly naked, in the middle of a busy coffee shop. Cecil flew over the counter like one of the Duke boys over the hood of the General Lee to calm him down.


 


"Hey, hey, buddy," Cecil said. "It's just we're fresh out of love right now. You know how busy it gets on the weekends. You see that woman over there?"


 


"Yes," a teary-eyed Mortimer replied.


 


"She got the last warm cup of love."


 


"She did?"


 


"Yeah, so maybe if you go across the street to Starbuck's, they'll have some love for you."


Mortimer stood up and dried his eyes, but, instead of walking out as Cecil had hoped he would, he walked towards the woman. Mortimer stared at this woman as if recognizing her.


 


"Excuse me," he said to her. "Did you purchase the last cup of warm love?"


 


"Yes," she replied, "And I'm gonna pour it all over your crotch if you don't go away."


 


This threat excited Mortimer and he sat down next to her.


 


"What's your name?" he asked.


 


"None of your business," she replied.


 


"Wow, how do you fit that on a name tag?"


 


"I don't work at a place where I have to wear a name tag. I have an education."


 


"You look familiar," he said. "Are you an actress?"


 


"I don't know," she said. "Do I seem to be acting like I want you here?"


 


"Aren't you Katharine Hepburn?"


 


"Yes," she said with an impatient smile, "And the guy behind the counter is Spencer Tracy. So I'm spoken for."


 


"I knew it."


 


"I'm not Katharine Hepburn, you idiot. Put you glasses and some clothes on and go away."


 


"You're not?" Mortimer said. "Well, then you're Claudette Colbert."


 


"What are you, ninety?" she said. "I'm just a girl sitting in front of an ass telling him to piss off, all right?"


 


Mortimer started to cry again before noticing a large group of children entering the store, followed by a man in a bunny suit.


 


"What's that?" he said.


 


"Whatever it is, go bother it and leave me alone."


 


"Why are all those kids crowding around my hallucination?"


 


"Tomorrow's Easter. That's the Easter Bunny."


 


Mortimer ran towards the children and began pushing them out of the way, shouting,


"Get away from my hallucination!" until angry parents wrestled him to the ground and the police arrived.


 


Mortimer spent six months at The Azalea House, a special kind of prison, with his giant rabbit hallucination and a cellmate he thought was Margaret Dumont. While in prison, he studied law and politics, and, when he got out, ran for mayor of Gardonia, a small, fictional town in the Northeast. He won by a landslide, but was arrested for parading in victory naked through the center of town. Thus ended the story of Mortimer, King of Warm Love and Giant Rabbit Hallucinations.