Employment with the Chicken

Hello there Ladies and Wheat Germs. Big Chicken here. Perhaps you noticed the darkly sinister, yet dashing and incredibly handsome shadow figure in the banner that my good chickie friend akgeezee made for z'blog header? If not, check it out because that is one rockin' banner as well as one fine dude. Didja look? Recognize me? I look pretty good, huh? Not to be blowing my own horn or anything, but the chicks really dig me.

Oh, hey, here's your daily Employment with the Chicken Update. We are not going to be hiring those Chicken Ghost Writers from yesterday, for a couple of reasons. One, they were both clearly much smarter than I am, and you know how I hate that. I don't care if it would be especially beneficial to employ smart people, I just can't do it right now.  Why?  Because of the second reason that I'm not hiring them which is because - you know what they wanted? Money. That's right. I was as shocked as you look (although still arguably much better looking). Anyhoo, during the course of the conversation, or "interview," rather (and here's a little reminder for you folks to just always be on your toes, because you never know when Big Chicken is gonna be watching or interviewing you. Nervous? You should be.  Because I am hitting the road and about to skate around the nation.  And I am bringing my poor punctuation with me.) the one guy asked how much the position paid. So I just fired that guy immediately.  During the job interview.

Listen, if you want to work for the chicken - read the job description. I just can't stress that enough, because I am a very busy bird.  I work hard to check out the chicks, and I simply do not, repeat, do not have the time to be discussing the conditions of employment here that were clearly stated once already in the job announcement. Just to be sure we're on the same page here, I do not have the time to spell out twice for you, or for any applicant, for that matter, the things that are already written once, that is to say, one time already, elsewhere on this blog. Now, where was I? And why the chicken suit? Ahhhh, eternal musings of a very fowl fellow, indeed.

This just in!

Word to the wise here, from your big, hunky chicken (that's right, ya'll, I am feeling a little cocky today), and that is: if you ever want to travel in the far far north and see things like the earth's electromagnetic field (or was it simply the magnetic field?), just go hang out with some smart people. I'm telling you, it works. Last night I went and hung out with some very smart people who first of all fed me and then I went and had some cake with some other very smart people and then I went back and this one smart person kicked my feathery butt in this one board game he created, which brings me to my next point, which is this: think twice before you play the person who created whatever game it is that's right in front of you, but especially if it is the brilliant blend of the ancients known as Chebache. (http://www.chebache.com/).

Okay, so then afterwards we went out to this one lake by this glacier where we watched the northern lights (a.k.a. the aurora borealis, and that only because we are viewing in the northern hemisphere) with this other very smart person who knew all of these things about the phenomenon and plus knew how to take these time-lapse photos that really showed the light nicely.  The scary part for your dear chicken was when the icebergs in the water made very loud noises that sounded like all the local bears were waiting right around the corner to EAT your chicken, and all I know is that somebody kept yelling and, while I know it wasn't me because I would never do that, I want you guys to know that whoever it was, you sounded like a girl.  Which was embarrassing for you.  So then, I was still hanging with my peeps out at the glacier viewing area where we watched lots of shooting stars and saw satellites, including one that flashed a few times, and then that one guy told that scary alien story that I still hate.   Not that I was scared or anything, but do you know how much noise one little porcupine can make in the underbrush at night?  It's like, shut up little quill-covered dude.  (No offense, porcupine, I was just scared, is all.  Don't poke me with that- Ow! Dude, that seriously hurt!  You gotta watch those things because they aren't playthings.  That's some serious weaponry you've got going there.)  So, as I was saying before, I was just hanging with my peeps, minding my own beeswax, when the cops rolled up and this very big, scary-looking patrolman in a freshly pressed (it seemed) uniform was all like, "Good evening."  That guy was so wrong already, because it was actually more like three in the morning.  Anyhow, then he had the nerve to be like, "How are you guys doing?"  Those public service people are always asking about your welfare, you know?  Anyhow, so the cops, yeah, they busted up our star-gazing party, being all like, "Hey, sorry you guys, because clearly you are not the types to be spray painting or vandalizing stuff, but the park closed at midnight," and then we were all like, "Oh, okay, sorry, we didn't know," and he was all like, "Okay."   Like, how did he know we weren't the type to cause trouble?  I mean, does he have any idea how corny and fowl-mouthed I can be?

So, yes, I fell into the clutches of some pretty smart people yesterday.  Because there was the smart person who made me a nice banner for the webpage, and there's another smart person who just communicated via email about the musical score for z'film.  Oh, and then he asked my thoughts about some writing thing, which just blows me away because I thought he had read this blog, but if he was asking my thoughts, then he obviously hasn't.  Unless, of course, this happens to be one of those situations where you pick the person that you really don't want to end up like, and you say something like, "So, uh, how eggsactly would you do this here thing?"

Listen, if you hang around long enough, and stick with us through this initial turbulence, one o' these days we are going to have a very very funny film for you. So follow zbigchicken, (that would be me) wherever he may roam, and please do so with the public "Follow" option if you can, so that the people who may help fund this endeavor can see how very popular I am and have some faith in the chicken.

By the by, you may notice the incredible length on this particular blog entry, and if you're wondering about the reason why, it's because I am going to be out of touch for the next two days, and I'm going to miss you!  Just kidding on that last part, because, in all reality, I'm sick to death of you guys by now and could really use a break from all the constant hounding.  Like that one chick in the bikini who keeps throwing herself at me.  Who is that?  And why is she here?  And, for that matter, why are any of us here?  Which brings us to the Contest of the Day!

ding ding ding ding ding ding ding

Hi Everyone, and Welcome to Big Chicken's Contest of the Day!

Today's contest is really very simple.  Today, we here at ztv (that's short for "zbigchicken television and intergalactic communications source code production studios, in association with the universally redundant executive producers in a far northern land mass on the third rock back from this, our particularly favorite sun" - so you can see why I chose to abbreviate it.  No?  Well, it's simple really, and that's because "zbigchicken television and intergalactic communications source code production studios, in association with the universally redundant executive producers in a far northern land mass on the third rock from this, our favorite sun" just takes too long to type.  Look, I know that I could use some hot cut and paste action here, but, really, I'm trying to keep this as basic as possible.  So, please get off my back, and while you're at it, pass the gravy.  Yeah, the chicken kind.  Why?  Because I like it.)

Hmm, where was I?  Oh, yes.  Contest.  Today's Contest for the Day is simple.  Write me a three page essay on the Meaning of Life.  All properly italicized, please.  You know how I hate the typical, straight up-and-down type of font.  So, or, hey, no, wait.  Don't make it a three-page essay, because I really don't wish to spend any more time than necessary sorting through you sordid comments.  Tell you what, shoot me an email and tell me in one word or less, the Meaning of Life.


That's Your Big Chicken Ya'll, at
zbigchicken at gmail dot com

(And thus started the corniest fabled Southern Migration of chicken ever seen in these here parts.)