Monday, August 28, 2006

Where There's a Will, There's a Hathaway

Dear Chicken Butt,

I'd like to start stalking actress Anne Hathaway. With respect to my love, I quote the great Lionel Richie: "I wonder where you are / And I wonder what you do / Are you somewhere feeling lonely? / Is someone loving you? / Tell me how to win your heart / Cause I haven't got a clue / But let me start by saying...I love you."

How can I make Anne know I love her and want to be with me and hold me and tell me I'm her man and miss me on set in Hong Kong and put my picture in her trailer first thing and make hot sweaty passionate love to me? Huh?

Desperately yours,
Banquo

Dear Restraining Order,

Stalking is beneath you and stalkers never win. If your love is true, you should do as I do: develop imaginary relationships with these stars and let them color your daily life. Exploit their entertainment value even more. For instance, I've recently engrossed myself in a passionate love affair with Gale Harold of Queer As Folk and Vanished.
He's been the perfect mate: He laughs at my knock-knock jokes, brings me fresh birdseed, tells me my feathers are beautiful. Because of his love for me, my waddle is confident. In the hen house, I find myself staring off into space, which makes my peers cluck. What's gotten into CB? And you know what? It's all my doing--along with some serious voices in my head.

Celebrity crushes can make you happy, but don't ever meet them in person. Chicken Butt once met a violent celebrity crush from the 1990s. While she relished the sight of him, languished on his every word, she realized he was just a cute dork and not the fierce steed on which to ride away. So tonight, Banquo, as Gale makes me my favorite dinner of fennel casserole and tap water, you and Anne can start your spectacular journey in a rose-filled yacht down the Thames.

--CB

Sunday, August 27, 2006

The Manicurean Candidate

Dear Chicken Butt,

As a chicken, you don't have to worry about nails, but I can't ever seem to give myself a good manicure. What's the point of showing off my fingers anyway? I just want to live my life without the hassle of constant feminine maintenance. Am I crazy?

Sincerely,
No nailing these nails

Dear Freddie Krueger,

Where would Barbra Streisand be without her flawless nails? I'm sure you noticed in The Mirror Has Two Faces how she speared a Snowball with those dagger-claws [aside: for binge food, does any woman ever choose a Snowball?]. Barbra's character may have been a "fat", mojo-less baseball-watching professor, but she kept a light glaze on her nails. Doing your nails is your choice, but if you're so stressed as to write to a chicken, go see a professional manicurist. As for the rest of traditional feminine maintenance, as long as no one sees your unkempt self, who cares? Let be the rogue hair growing out of your neck. Though Babs would pluck it.

--CB

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Today's Confession


I was watching an Alfred Hitchcock movie and found it too boring. Instead, I turned on "The Ron Clark Story" starring Matthew Perry. What makes this sadder is that I've already seen "The Ron Clark Story". Twice.

Friday, August 25, 2006

Vanishers and Resurfacers

Dear Chicken Butt,

Like clockwork the loves from my past come creeping out of darkness into my life. Just when I have sworn each of them off, they text, send lame emails or, in rare instances muster up the courage to call me. Why? Why? These women rejected me before. Why are they bothering me now? Worse yet, they blow me off and then a week or two or even a month or two later they come back. It makes me think every time I end a relationship, no matter how inconsequential, I should tie a concrete block around her neck so as to make certain when she falls to the bottom of the pond, she can never ever make it back to the surface and into my life again. What gives?

Signed,

No Lifeguard on Duty, please drown

Dear Not David Hasselhoff,

I'm afraid you've come under the spell of Vanisher and Resurfacer Syndrome. Those V&Rers are momentarily ego-boosting but deep down, they are so like the bailing fiancee in The Wedding Singer. The Internet makes V&R easy, so turn off your computer and count to 100 before answering any message. Consider this a test from the universe. Will you go back for more?

Then think of David Hasselhoff. Would the Hoff answer a lame text message? Yes, because he's human. And humans have those three-day benders. They attempt naked backbends on a trans-Atlantic flight. They answer resurfacers. Forgive yourself, then pray you'll get bored enough to press Delete.

Having disturbing images of the Hoff on a plane so must lie down.

--CB

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Ask Chicken Butt

Dear High Priestess of Butt,

Lately, I have dated men who have each written "fiction". Is there really such thing as fiction? Or, are the thoughts of the protagonist really thoughts of their own? In which case I should be alarmed and should run the other direction since they're talking about: valium, cocaine and other drugs; wearing his mother's underwear all through his adolescence, watching porn with his father and brother, wanting to do it with teenage cousin; not being able to get an erection at age thirty due to having been hurt in the past; getting into barfights with midgets; going bald at thirty and being generally pissed. These are just a few . . .

And, if the fiction is true, shouldn't I run as fast as I can?

Signed,
Nobody could make this shit up

Dear Someone Dating Nobody,

Yes, it's probably psychologically dangerous to date a writer. But the truth is, they aren't all that interesting. They just whine more. Because writers sit in front of a computer all day, they may try to add spice elsewhere--feign eccentricity to mask an average life. If you were dating Jackie Collins, you might worry that she lives like her skank characters and break up with her. And she could be a sweetheart who's a really good eavesdropper. Everyone needs love...and pity (especially those going bald). Besides, isn't watching porn with relatives normal?

CB

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

The New Face of Chicken Shit

For those who've been reading Chicken Shit for the Soul, you might notice we're changing. Instead of covering celebrity antics, we will focus on advice and confessions--with a celebrity slant. If you want to read what we think about the stars, get the latest haiku, go to www.dishuponastar.blogspot.com. If you'd like to send in a confession (anonymous) or problem for Chicken Butt to answer, please write to askchickenbutt@yahoo.com. Thanks for reading. CB

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Ask Chicken Butt

Dear Chicken Butt,

In his day, my daddy was a superstar with a phenomenal career as a physician. All of his women patients were in love with him. He was even voted most eligible bachelor in our hometown, even though he was married at the time. Quite a feat, no? Is this why every man I fall for and chase is some kind of high achieving prick, instead of some kind of wonderful? Let's take a look at my scorecard:

*Lost my virginity to biggest coke dealer in town
*In college dated man-boy, who was published in The New Yorker by age 21
*Dated cyclist, who held time trial record for years until Lance finally broke it
*Dated many, many high-powered buttholes, including race car driver, journalist *and "playboy" executive, among others.

Is there hope to end the narcissist nature of my prowl and settle down with an average joe, who will worship the earth on which I work?

Signed,
Get your head out of the water and into me . . .

Dear Snorkeler,

I notice you mention only what these dudes do and not who they are (that was so intense for Chicken Butt). Maybe you *do* need an Eric Stoltz for your Mary Stuart Masterson self, but would you be attracted enough to create Some Kind of Wonderful? Chicken Butt has found that as she's gone through the barrage of roosters, her taste has changed. We're not saying these roosters smell any better, but generally they became nicer. The Blaines of Pretty in Pink (I'm sorry, he was a tool) became boring. When you're aware of your bad taste, you can change (Dr. Phil says this). It could take a week, months or decades. The moral of the story is: Never date a cyclist again--or ugly people.

CB

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Confessions of Crazy Hen

The Secrets of Life-long Celebrity-aholic

Today's Confession:

I saw the promos for the new Today Show with Meredith Viera. It looked so harmonious and exciting, I almost cried.