ø - Razorcake

from Wisconsin came to visit for sixteen days.
Attempting to show my family around Krakow
and Prague was more tiring than a Rhythm
Chicken parade gig! Then I became acquainted
with a Polish band named “Wiewiorczaki.”
With a name that roughly translates to “the
Squirrel Men,” I liked them from the start!
[It sounds like you’ve been busy, but if you can’t
deliver any new ruckus reports I will have to do
my own part! With your permission, Mr.
Chicken, I would like to share with the readers
my first Dunghole Report! – Dr. S.]
I already gave the kiddies a Dinghole Report
just before you two decided to pull your heads
out of the Cactus Club. I’ve still got plenty to
cluck about, Doc! You see, earlier this week I
had a revelation! I was hanging around our little
sardine can home listening to the same Roy
Rogers CD over and over until one song exploded
out of the music box like a burning bush! My
Holy Church of Ruckus felt the first pangs of a
new entity threatening to burgle my thunder!
Until now, I was so sure that ruckus was the
grandest state of being, the holiest condition, the
supreme law of all lands. Then this song sang to
my liver and my liver knew there was a new
way. Ruckus is still the law, but behold the
newest form of revolt! The Son of Ruckus!
Decades before there was a band called Slayer,
true evil was born in song. It sprung from, of all
unlikely sources, Roy Rogers! The song…
“STAMPEDE!”
Let me share with you some of Roy’s Holy
Scripture:
Cold black clouds like funeral shrouds roll
down their icy threat
And we faced a fight this raging night with the
odds on the side of death
For a stampeding herd with its panic stirred
is a thing for a cowboy to shun
For no mortal man ever holds command when
the cattle are on the run!
STAMPEDE!
The rising of the wind sends out its wail
Driving cattle down an endless trail
Rolling thunder booms sending cattle to their
doom, STAMPEDE!
There’s lightning! There’s thunder!
There’s wind and rain, STAMPEDE!
Now, do you understand? Is STAMPEDE
the new RUCKUS?!!! Can STAMPEDE and
RUCKUS share the throne? Is this a signal
warning of the forthcoming split in the Holy
Church of Ruckus? Does this all not reek of
Martin Luther? Or is STAMPEDE a golden
calf? This gets even scarier when I backtrack on
my Roy Rogers CD and on just two songs previous
to “Stampede,” Roy sings, “How do I
know? The Bible tells me so!” Sicnarf! You’re
an educated man, tell me your thoughts on all
this!
[Dunghole Report #1:
Sprayin’ Crap at the Party!]
It was about seven years ago and I was living
in the upstairs attic of a bait shop just ten
feet from Lake Michigan. That evening I must
have consumed some strange fibrous materials
before the gallons of Pabst, and then crawled
into hibernation in just my tighty-whitey underwear.
At some point in my slumber, I was halfawoken
by some urgent need of which I didn’t
quite understand yet. All I knew was that I HAD
TO GET OUTSIDE AND I HAD TO GET
OUTSIDE IMMEDIATELY! Still half asleep,
and quite flustered from the growing anal pressure,
I stumbled down the stairs and flung open
the outside door. Once outside, I became more
aware of my need to excrete, and the immense
urgency of this need! I made it to about five feet
from the shore, pulled my lone white garment to
my ankles, pointed my precarious poohole lakeward,
and just let loose. Still not fully awake, I
almost fainted when the sonic blast shot my liquid
feces out over the water. It was scary. The
eruption was so intense that I thought some of
my intestines were shot out with the doody.
BLBLBLARSZTBLBLBLSHHHHHH!!!! I
was one big spray-power painter, spraying the
moonlit lake brown.
Pressure was relieved and I felt I could
straighten up and attempt to tidy up. I pulled off
the tighty-whiteys and used them as toilet-paper.
I was about to toss the browned whiteys aside
when I became more aware of my setting. The
bait shop was right in front of a harbor full of
boat rental slips. I turned around to see a fancy
yacht tied to the nearest dock, and there was a
full-blown cocktail party out on the deck! I
stood there naked, momentarily staring at the
fifteen or twenty wealthy yachters. They were
standing motionless, holding their martinis and
staring at me with horror in their eyes! In my
mind, I tried to go through everything they just
witnessed. I then stumbled back up to my bed
and pretended nothing ever happened. –Dr. S.]
(MWAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I can just see
the looks on those FIBs’ faces! – F.F.)
–The Rhythm Chicken turns off his Polish
ham radio and continues solo again. –
I can see that those two are taking all of this
even less seriously than I am. I feel as if my
“one-Dinghole-Report-per-column” quota has
been met, so now I can just cluck on about a few
more tidbits and scratch along. I will now make
the smooth transition to Fleet Farm! In northeastern
Wisconsin we have these stores called
Fleet Farm where men can go to shop man-style
and stroll around the farmer’s hardware store
that also sells Lee jeans and hunting gear. The
rest of America has Menards, because Fleet
Farm was Menards before Menards was
Menards. Yeah, it’s the old school Menards. I
think I was just a nine or ten-year-old chicklet
the year I did ALL my Christmas shopping at
Fleet Farm! Daddy sure made an early man
outta me! (Note to self: try to get Fleet Farm to
sponsor America’s first 13
RHYTHM CHICKEN