First dig two graves.

A prominent chinese philosopher is quoted (and translated of course) as remarking, "He who is intent on revenge should first dig two graves."

While this is profound and deeply meaningful - CHICKENS CAN'T USE A SHOVEL!

Anyone who would thus be willing to assist with this task is asked to perform the follwing tasks:

1. Buy a nice rooster with brightly coloured plumage.
2. Come (with your new rooster) to have some lunch with Beleobus and his chicken.
3. Choose a convenient time to leave the room with Sir Beleobus...

AHEM!!!

4. Choose your shovel from the gardner's shed.
5. Dig about twelve post-holes.
6. Create a nice honeymoon destination for your Rooster and his new 'rubber' friend.

AHEM!!!

The lesson here, according to the chicken is:

MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR.

The chicken is watching you (while enjoying a COCKTAIL - pun intended)

The countdown has begun.

September is nearly upon us.

Spring is here, spring is here.
Life is skittles and Life is beer.

Yes, a bit of Tom Lehrer... It is nearing the date for my long-awaited holiday (all five days of it) but getting out at all is a bit of a miracle currently.

There have been a number of new readers to this site and of the few who have been kind enough to leave a message, there seems to be a consensus... why the chicken!?!???

To briefly answer this query, before returning to that all-important idea of 'work': I enjoy collecting 'odd' items that have some practical purpose - russian pocket watches, spanish cutlery... you get the idea. So one day I came across a stress chicken... practical and odd. How perfect. Well, after the first time someone had the idea to kidnap my poor chicken (and write a ransom note!) that sort of opened the flood-gates for many pranksters to practice their craft.

Well, after a while the imagination of the pranksters began to wear a bit thin, and the pranks ceased to be funny (until the ice-cube incident) so this Blog was named in honour of the chicken becoming tired of their silly games.

May you all live long and squeeze many chickens.

Posting some Piccies.

I have recieved a request from a particular 'reader' of this rant for greater visual content. While I do honestly believe that the two or three regular readers of the revenge of the rubber chicken do so for the razor-sharp wit that can't slice butter that has been in the sun for 10 minutes... OK, here follow some 'pics' from my collection over the year. The photographs are all the artist (read blogger) s own; the cartoons... well I can quite remember where they came from, especially the M15+ rated one... but it does not really matter.

ENJOY and please keep those comments rolling in - it makes writing a regular update a more inviting prospect. So thankyou thus far.

May the chicken be your friend.

I'm half proud of this one.

Melbourne at Dusk.

Interview with a chicken (part 2)

Were you talking to me??

Interview with a chicken (part 1)

What are you looking at???

Silly Photo No. 2 (M15+)

Hmmm...

Silly Photo No. 1.

Would this be Mona Piggy or Miss Lisa?

A weekend without Chicken

Just a brief aside: Mr baked Turkey... 8128 = 1 + 2 + 4 + 8 + 16 + 32 + 64 + 127 + 254 + 508 + 1016 + 2032 + 4064 so yes, I can prove that 8128 is a perfect number. As are 6, 28 and 496. There are currently 37 known perfect numbers, the exact number that can be found is being debated, some believe there are an infinite number of them, others are not sure. Stick to your art, my friend. Leave the maths to me.

Now, to write about a rather interesting weekend.

Friday.

Seymour. Trivia night. Our team was aptly named the Rubber Chickens, seven teachers and one honourary teacher on the team, we came from behind in the last two rounds to snatch a glorious victory. Lots of wine bottles now added to the collection, party at my place sometime soon for those who know where...

Saturday.

Richmond (Melbourne). Live music at the Depot. Wearing the 'No I will not fix your computer' T-Shirt, I found myself in a discussion with a German computer programmer who was himself wearing a picture of a caffeine m0lecule. Nerds and beer makes for an interesting evening.

Sunday.

Much of Sunday has been censored from this posting. When time is on my side, some photographs will follow. NOW, THAT HAS YOU THINKING!!!!

The Statement is Made

As luck would have it, today saw the arrival of two international packages. I must say that express postage from the USA is truly marvellous - with goods arriving at my door in country victoria five working days after being ordered.

Two very nice T-Shirts arrived from the famed website ThinkGeek.com - great for many novelty (ahem, practical) items and a brilliant range of T-Shirts (plug, plug, plug...)

Yes, one bears the slogan "No, I will NOT fix your computer."

And the other "2 + 2 = 5 for exceptionally arge values of 2"

Granted, the latter takes a bit of a maths-crazed nerdy sense of humour, but then, the idea behind ThinkGeek shirts is precisely that - the wearer gets great pleasure out of seeing others NOT getting the joke.

The chicken was well pleased as the initiative is now with the Nerd.

Stay tuned, tomorrow could be a long day...

The German Puzzle

Du glaubst doch nicht, das sich nicht noch ein andrer findet?

My (incredibly poor) German translates this quite roughly as: Do you not believe that what you is lost cannot be found again?

As to the source of this... well, the obvious starting point was Neitzche - but upon reflection it sounded too romantic to come from the hand of a philosopher interested with the free-will of man depending upon justification... and the notion of having lost something...

It hit me like a brick during the early afternoon.

Beethoven.

Well, he did lose his hearing and that is usually not something that can be regained... While it may not be correct, it is the best I can arrive at, considering also that Beethoven did write many romantic letters to one special person in particular...

But please, if anyone knows differently (especially if you know where I read this quotation...) feel free to correct me.

The chicken awaits my report.

A Cool Change

Stranger than fish falling from the sky or the Mayor of Warsaw spontaneously combusting... Well probably not. But when you arrive back from a brief soujourn to the post office to collect a new camera and find a large plate on your desk with... well see the three photographs below!

The clever nature of this prank had me momentarily dumbfounded. I was of the opinion that Dr Moriaty had been cleaned out of ideas. For a full hour I was rather worried that this was not the case. In a moment of soberity (is that a word??) I decided upon three possibilities:

1. Dr Moriaty has been reading the Tong Master's Book of Practical Jokes.
2. The Tong Master is Guilty on this occasion.
3. Something beyond my imagination is going on here...

Although it was rumoured that the Tong master has been seeking and short-listing apprentices to take on the snag-turning duties so that he may be free to enjoy a long drive off the tenth, there is no knowing how the witty and unnervingly clever mind of such a man operates. He denied the charge, and as a man of honour, I was inclined to believe him.

Dr Moriaty was surely not clever enough to think of such a prank on his own, but the idea of him reading something that was not curriculum related was not an idea that sat well.

That left option three. Hmmm... not the best position to be in on a monday night. I guess that leaves four days to get to the bottom of the matter though... the search begins in earnest!

When the temperature rose, he began to feel his feet again. 

Apparently, the chicken was not impressed. 

The pranks reach a new level... 

Recruitng the troops

Well... it is certainly going to be a rather nasty day for chicken theives soon... there is now a website that sells rubber chickens:

http://www.imperialtoy.com

Amongst other 'interesting' items.

But the plan for revenge of the rubber chicken could soon be in the offing... The unsuspecting chicken theif arrives at work and opens his office. There is a chicken there with a rather poignant note tied to it. He thinks no more and goes to the bathroom. He lifts up the toilet seat and finds a rubber chicken looking up at him... He goes to make a cup of coffee and finds a chicken in his mug. Goes to heat up his lunch and finds a chicken in the microwave...

When finally, he decides to check on the original chicken, he finds it missing, with a note left behind that says, "I'm watching you!"

Although I like the idea, I doubt it will work in its current form. Thus I welcome any suggestions, especially from people that like to Bake Turkeys...

Enjoy yourselves until then.

Do you speak Russian?

It is remarkably amazing how much doubt can be created in the mind of a guilty party by asking someone, in Moriaty's presence, "Can you speak Russian, I need to translate these instructions." Well, poor Dr Moriaty did not know what to think!

Too often the threat of retrinution is far greater than the actuality... and mind games are further reaching in the long run than the simple moving of a rubber chicken.

For in the mind of a guilty party, they know that when revenge is sought, they have no grounds upon which to plead. Only time will tell of the greatest retribution scheme our workplace has ever seen...

...the details will follow after the act.

Deception by Curry.

Once a week, Mr Vett enforces the 'curry clause' also known as the weekly colon cleansing. The cermony is a special one involving all things spicy. The rubber stress chicken (who is changing his name via deed poll next week) is rather jealous that we do not invite him on Chicken Korma night. He would be quite upset to learn take real chicken and through a time honoured process turn it into rubber.

More specifically, my dear chicken is performing guard duty this evening... watching the world go by from what ever nook or cranny the soon-to-be-late Dr James Moriaty has chosen for his hiding place. It becomes a daily routine: get to work, chicken is gone. Check the fridges, check the microwaves, check the freezer. Check the dishwasher... nope. Ok, check the roof. Check the freezer again. I was unfortunately caught in the act of hunting out my poor chicken this morning and a colleague suggested that the act of kindapping a chicken bordered on harassment. Yes, my dear, I am going to have Dr Moriaty aprehended on suspicion of cruelty to rubber animals! Hmm... it would be amusing... I just need a friend on the force.

Mr Vett knows how to use the force, but I think that being a Jedi is somewhat different to blackmailing police. When you think about it though... both would be acts of 'using the force'.

And so the chicken lives on to seek revenge another day.

The time fast approaches.

Watch this space.

The River Runs Dry.

Well, as this blog has become more of a rant and rave and vent-your-spleen type of posting site rather than the good natured, good humoured investigative journalism around the fine state of Victoria as was intended, it is time to announce a new development is the Chicken's strategy for revenge.

You see, the enemy is weakening slowly. His creativity has worn extremely thin and there are precious few (probably nobody) that finds the antics of hide-the-chicken amusing any more. Today, again - third time in a week - the chicken was kidnapped. It is a sign of weakening imagination that the chicken travelled a grand total of thirty centimetres this time to its new hiding spot.

Mr Prankster, you have been devoid of that title now. Your powers of imagination have weakened yet your insistence on continuing to take my chicken displays beyond reasonable doubt that you feel threatened by me. I warn you, dear associate, I have allies in the ranks and their number is growing. You may have the seniority, but I have only been your colleague six months. If you start a war, there will be no winner; but I promise you that I will not be a loser, unlike yourself.

The choice is now yours.

Act Wisely.

Time for a Career Change?

Well, finally it has happened!

Nope, I have not lost my Job.

Neither am I getting Married (that I know of)

No, the chicken hasn't got its revenge either....

SOMEONE HAS READ THIS BLOG!

Yes well, small things and small minds as they say. As it happens, two people in the same night allowed their eyes to wander over the glorified drivel that I seek to impose upon the world on a nightly basis. There were two very different reactions.

Reaction 1: "Dude, you need help."

Reaction 2: "Have you considered writing professionally?"

I guess the fact that the author of remark #2 both lives and works with me and therefore understands the true origins of the Rubber Chicken (and he took the photos) does explain the different response - or perhaps the fact that he knows I'm beyond help. Which brings me to the final thought for the evening:

If someone became addicted to Counselling, how would you treat them?

While this sounds like a rather silly suggestion, look at the surge in Psychology jobs being filled around the world and ask yourself why these people are among the more well-to-do in our society...

Email - the new battlefield.

Is it not quite amazing how the law of unintended consequences has become a self-fulfilling prophecy?

When nuclear physics entered the realm of human understanding and thoughts of clean, unexhaustable energy were being discussed, Oppenheimer was creating the atomic bomb to "protect western civilization." Although why they had to drop another one three days later (when the war was effectively over...) yes, well I digress.

Email was developed as a method of instantaneous communication. We were going to save time and create a paperless office. Yet the levels of spam (not the Monty Python variety) that enter mailboxes on a daily basis make checking email one of the greated chores of all time. Even worse than spam, in my opinion, is bulk email that 'business contacts' mass-forward to all their 'associates'. Amusing photographs from the olympic weightlifting... I don't care! People do it without thinking, on a daily basis. It gets checked and deleted without any further consideration, but such checking is required because spam filters were not designed to block business contacts who are at the time being paid to waste other people's time.

So, to all of you mass-forwarders out there:

THE CHICKEN IS WATCHING YOU.

An Ally in the Ranks.

Again the chicken finds itself scibbling notes and sharpening the axe of revenge, it would seem a genuine Dr James Mortimer has emerged to extract great pleasure from punishing the poor flightless bird. (For those who are not familiar with the writings of Arthur Conan Doyle, Mortimer was Sherlock Holmes adversary, although very much a background figure)

Yet when Mort (as he shall now be known) shows his true colours, demonstrating before witnesses that he will not respect superiority or seniority, that he is truly not a man of honour, it is at this time that a man's character may be truly revealed if the spies are attuned properly to their surrounds. For there was one man in that room today, my sources reveal, that stood up to Mort quite profusely when my poor chicken was being sacrificed from the great rafters by a chain of elastic bands - one man showed his true character above all others and stated more strongly than words ever could, that he was prepared to honour our unspoken alliance in the ranks. This, above all else, is the mark of an honourable man.

Thank you, dear friend.

To Catch a Thief.

Firstly, some background details.

My desk at work is right next to the main thoroughfare for staff moving through the office. This does not cause me too much concern as people often stop by for a chat while on their way through. The top drawer of my desk did contain a decent supply of chocolates; you know, for those times you feel low on energy. Well, the supply has recently been depleting a little quicker than I would like, and the chicken is not impressed. It was therefore suggested to me that a trap was needed.

An 89 cent mouse trap from the local supermarket did the job perfectly. When I accidentally set it off today around 4pm, it launched a piece of chocolate about four meters. Needless to say, the trap had a good spring in it!

But now the trap is set, I'm starting to feel a little worried. You can get sued for stuff like bruising someone's finger in a mouse-trap that you leave somewhere. And if such a situation ever did occur, saying, 'the chicken told me to do it,' would probably be taken as an insanity plea.

Tomorrow is friday, so enjoy yourselves everyone.

Stuck in a Rut.

Odd word, RUT, is it not? Of course, in the days of horse drawn carriages and dirt roads, wheel-ruts were common and to become stuck in one was a real dampner on your progress.

Well, I'm stuck in one right now. Not a horse-drawn one, but a lack of inspiration and a general feeling of lethargy. I would ask for assistance from my devoted readers... but there are none. Why am I writing this silly thing anyway? Of course, it was a request. Hmmm... Nope, leaving that line of thought well alone.

If anyone is actually following this story, I apologise for not posting anything of any real substance today, things are just getting bogged down at this end of the food chain.

But here's a question: if you don't pay your exorcist, do you get reposessed?

Which came First?

The Chicken or the Egg?

I know, I know. Rule number one for share house living is: NEVER let your housemate run riot with a digital camera and a high-speed internet connection. Rule number two is: when you fail to obey rule number one, do not forget to lock the toilet door after you've had a curry for dinner. The results of breaking rule 2 cannot be shown here, but you should have a fair idea of our style of humour from the few photographs that have been leaked so far.

While philosophy is something I do enjoy immensely, when it gets to the silly stage, it is time for a new line of discussion.

But not tonight.

Does anyone actually read this stuff? Probably not, just as well I guess.

When a friend drops in.

My chicken grew ever more curious about the work I was doing.

Cooling Off

Mr Vett decided that the chicken needed cooling off and shut him in the freezer. The chicken was caught on security camera trying to escape.

The Chicken is IN.

The Rubber Stress Chicken watches from on high, pondering his next act of revenge.

Sir Beleobus, who art Thou?

This shall be quite a short posting, but I have recieved numerous sideways glances when I recite my contact details to people that I have decided to clarify this matter somewhat.

Sir Beleobus was a Knight of the Round Table. Although there is some doubt as to whether he was amongst the original twelve, there is historical speculation that the table was actually built to seat 170 knights.

A man of honour, although of little fame, Sir Beleobus represents most succinctly the type of person I would wish to be if everything in life could be by choice.

Apologies for the serious entry, hope you enjoyed your history lesson.

A Gentlemen's Agreement.

It is quite disturbing when you learn that one of your superiors has a dossier in his posession that contains a myriad of planned abductions for a certain person's chicken; it is more disturbing to note that a fellow 'bottom feeder' has been invited to join in the process and become an accessory to the crime. Now, being a man of honour and believing that, given appropriate opportunity, most people will act honourably, I approached my fellow pleb with a gentlemanly proposition. The agreement was for him to have no involvement whatsoever with the superior in question relating to any matters of practical joking (because none of them have been funny yet) and in return I would grant him safe passage for the duration of his time as my colleague.

He pondered a while, before seeking the opinion of fellow staff members. When he was informed that I had been the only person to successfully pull a prank on the boss without being fired (although quite why I am still unsure), needless to say, the agreement was passed into the realms of unspokenness without even the need for a handshake.

I suppose you want to know details of this famous prank? OK, but do not try this at your place of work, or you may quickly find yourself hunting through the jobs guide very soon. To be successful in practical joking you must first ensure the joke is funny and then judge the character of the prankee properly to ensure they will not take undue offence. If they are your boss, these rules are unbreakable and unbendable.

So, when you leave a scratch-ticket on the boss' desk one evening, and this scratchie he scratches to reveal a prize of $20,000, he gets rather excited. When he (eventually) turns the ticket over to read:

"Winning tickets of $10,000 or more must submit claim form by mail. Claim forms supplied by Santa Claus. All winning tickets must be validated by the tooth-fairy and conform to her game rules. Winning prizes may NOT be claimed anywhere, so forget about it! All winners are losers and must have an excellent sense of humour."

And yet I still have a job. I was taken aside and given a strict talking to the next morning, and he did relocate my desk over the weekend and make me look for it, but all in good fun.

The chicken had his revenge on this occasion, stay tuned to hear the tale of his next victim!

The Procrastination Paradox.

Besides Rubber Chickens and Rubik's Cube, the main tool I employ when needing to undertake some serious procrastination is philosophy. Such is the nature of philosophy that you can question anything and it is warranted, "why is the sky blue" could be posed as a valid philosophical question and then, choosing to ignore the science you studdied while drinking your way through university, you could respond (in your best matter-of-fact voice) "because if it were red, the schizophrenics would have to wear sunglasses every day."

Granted, this is an incredibly unlikely explanation that contains internal inconsidtencies larger than our national debt, but it would be a genuinely intriguing mental exercise to try and support this contention with logic or other philosophical tools. The hours that one could spend weighing up the Pros and Cons (such as Progress and Congress - ah, had to get that one in somewhere!) would result in it being time to go to work before you even finished your dinner; which wouldn't bother me as my housemate is going through a sausage phase - he bought about 50 snags on friday night and, although I'm not one to avoid a BBQ, finding new ways to cook and eat sausages does become a bit difficult after four days. I'm sure he'll be back to the curry phase by tuesday... mental note to self, buy toilet paper before tuesday.

Where was I? Ah yes, procrastination. If there was an award for procrastination, I think we'd still be holding the first event. But I digress. It was suggested to me this evening by a fellow intellectual that procrastination is somewhat of a catch 22 situation (if you are not familiar with the phrase catch 22 DO NOT read the book, you will have even less of an idea afterwards - it is a very good book though) Yes... catch 22... ah, as procrastination is loosely defined by most people as the act of putting off a task until tomorrow while these same people are apt users of the catch (not 22) phrase 'tomorrow never comes' then logical deduction tells us that either (1) procrastination is the act of putting off something indefinitely or (2) Procrastination cannot occur because the key definitions contain internal logical inconsitencies. Hmm... I shall have to procrastinate on this somewhat.

May you live long and squeeze plenty of rubber chickens.

Never trust a Dwarf

Surely it is odd that, in the realms of fantasy, Dwarves are stereotyped as amoungst the best warriors in the realm. Beer swilling, food-bits stuck in their over-sized beards and arms bearly long enough to swing a battleaxe, they seem to live by the saying 'the bigger you are, the more there is to hit!' No-one bears a grudge like a dwarf, have you noticed? It seems that just because they live for hundreds of years they think they can complain bitterly for years about the time a stupid elf knocked over their pewter beer mug back before D&D was ever invented!

Yes, things are decidedly off beat this morning. I have a bit over two extra hours on my hands this morning due to my inability to tell the difference between a saturday and a sunday train time-table. So, expecting to catch an 8am train, I allowed myself an extra hour of sleep (well, it is the weekend) and then discovered that the Saturday morning trains are at 7 and 11am. Darn dwarves, I'll bet they never had to worry about train timetables. Maybe they ate rubber chickens too? Have you ever noticed that there are not too many rubber chickens running around these days? Perhaps they're all stuck in rubber factories. Endangered species, I think. I wonder if I could get some WWF funding to start a society for the protection of rubber chickens??? Not the ideal get rich quick scheme, but at least it will be a novel one.

A quick survey on Ebay reveals that a grand total of thirty seven, yep 37 simmilar items are available for purchase in the US, ranging from clown props to Mardi-Gras beads and (oddly enough) a gun that fires rubber chickens. Oooh I want one of those!

Perhaps this is enough to suggest that a fund for the protection of rubber stress chickens would be successful if launched in the States. We could then launch a sub-branch in Asia and eventually conquer the Australian market. Or... all we need is some goofy-but-lovable character to take one into a reality game show somewhere and sales are bound to go through the roof. Being one to avoid these programs on principle (well there is no possibility of good writing as... there's no F*ing script!) but there was a MAD magazine article done on Aussie series one, which explained to my satisfaction the sudden increase in schoolgirls wearing bunny ears, an icon I thought had peacefully been laid to rest with the extinction of the 70s. But the 70's are not extinct! They will be back in 66 years (hmmm, route 66, ride it to the 70's - could be my next catch phrase) Damn phrases, they're proving ellusively difficult to catch these days.

Okay, the time comes for my departure. I shall leave you with an interesting thought:

What if there were no hypothetical situations???

Enjoy yourselves out there and beware the wrath of the Rubber Chicken.

And then it was Friday.

Friday. It feels like next Tuesday. I arrived at work this morning... Nothing. My desk was still there and the chicken was resting peacefully, observing the world from on high. After sorting through a plethora of email - all of it junked, I commenced my new hobby.

143 this time. One hundred and forty three steps from my desk to the whiteboard in room B4, where I was to spend the next couple of hours. This was interesting as yesterday I reached B5 in 140 steps, and B5 is further north than B4. Maybe I was walking faster, or maybe talking to people while making a mental count does not constitute good practice. Mental note to self, visit canteen and inquire about volume of oil used in daily cooking. I never eat at the school canteen; I actively dislike greasy fingers. Perhaps I had better explain myself.

A few days ago I was approached by a member of the English faculty to write a column for the magazine. Having become known for my limericks (a rather long story, with some humerous five-liners...) they were probably expecting something witty and clever. Lesson number one in life: do not ask a mathematician to write an article for an artistic journal, the result will be very artistic in its own way, but leave the majority of the audience scratching their heads and asking, 'who was Cauchy anyway?' The joke, by the way is, "Why did the mathematician name his dog Cauchy? Answer: it left a residue at every pole!" Or "Why is the contour integral of Western Europe zero?" Answer: "Because the Poles are all in the East!" So they're not to everyone's liking, even Cauchy himself is an amusing story to a finely honed mathematical brain.

So, in order to write a piece that would entertain and inform the majority of readers while maintaining a highly mathematical focus I decided to journey around the school and gather as many meaningless statistics as possible and submit them to genuine statistical analysis. For example, is there a strong correlation between the number of suspensions in a week and the volume of beer the pub sells on a Friday evening? Or, if you took all the toilet paper the school consumes in a year, how far accross the country would it reach? I'm not expecting the most positive of reactions, but hopefully, if I go overboard enough I will not be asked to write one next year.

So, although 'beer and pizza night' has become something more of a 'coke and kfc' night, it is Friday finally. With a train to Melbourne at around 8am, I hope the town decides to pack it in early tonight.

A dish best served cold

Here is the inaugural post in the Revenge of the Rubber Chicken. When the opportunity arises, both the chicken and I shall have our photographs posted here, until then you will have to make do with the historical details.

I live in rural Victoria, Australia, having moved up here from Melbourne in January of this year for a number of reasons, not all of them positive. At the moment it is nearing 10.30 pm on Thursday the 5th of August, 2004 and I am sitting at home, contemplating the week that was. A 1981 album from The Cure is playing in the background while I contemplate packing it in for the night.

Ah, yes. The chicken. Smoker's have their cancer sticks to relieve stress, I have a rubber chicken. So far this year he has been kidnapped, ransomed, had his neck tied in a knot, hung by a noose from the main staffroom doorway and then today... today my poor chicken was put between two slices of bread, wrapped in gladwrap and left in the fridge.

This blog was started as a (very) delayed response to a request from my fellow intern from last year. While she chose to stay in Melbourne while saving for that trip to eastern Europe, I moved north. The anecdotes I told of normal life up here recieved so many laughs from my more sheltered colleagues that they suggested starting a web log. Here is the result, I hope you all enjoy it, I promise to re-tell the earlier stories again in retrospect.


And remember:

If at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you.