The Chicken Feed

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In The Rubber Chicken’s Burning Question series, we have successfully solved some of life’s greatest mysteries by asking every celebrity or inappropriate party we could find.  What is The Grimace? What do the birds and the bees do? How do you get to Sesame Street? Why does the sun shine? (The answers, in order: 1. Cloned Mutant Beetroot / 2. They Make Toast / 3.  A Global Network of Mario-Style Warp Pipes / 4. It’s Complicated.)

Isn’t it about time we applied this research technique to the Greater Good?  What if, instead of drawing upon pop-culture or lightweight philosophy, we turned to cold, hard science?

In my daily search for risqué Last Starfighter fan fiction, I accidentally stumbled upon an astronomy blog and learned a startling fact:
90% of the universe’s mass remains unaccounted for.

Today, we pitch the following question to our guests:
Where is the universe’s missing mass?

Well, Television’s Michelle Rodriguez?
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Casino Royale is not a James Bond film. It has a character in it named “James” (which is a fairly common name) and his last name happens to be “Bond”, which I suppose is some coincidence, but that’s pretty-much where the similarity ends. This bold new reboot of the Bond mythos has foregone campy humor, funky gadgets and delicious innuendo in favor of a brooding, bloody-fisted spy with a fractured psyche. In this manner, Casino Royale has taken the admirable step away from self-parody and toward direct thievery of the Jason Bourne franchise.

But fear not. Apparently this is what the public wants. At no time was I more attuned to this blood-curdling fact than when Harry Knowles, Demon Emperor of Ain’t It Cool News got a whiff of the Variety story (AICN shuns the term Variety, preferring to instead refer to the trade paper as “one of our top LA operatives”) claiming Eddie Murphy was going to attempt raping a dead horse and do another Beverly Hills Cop movie.

Knowles, a beacon (I accidentally typed ‘bacon’ at first) in the tundra of “geek culture” responded to this news with the following fucked up shit:

“After watching Eddie’s performance in DREAMGIRLS – I can say, without hesitation that this could be a brilliant career move. Make Foley a badass, burnt out – possibly retired – having to face down one last investigation… Making the action hurt, making Murphy foul again. And don’t bring back Serge. Kill Billy in the opening sequence and start from there.”

Is there any comprehension up there of what the Beverly Hills Cop series is actually supposed to be about? I’m beginning to suspect that if people like this had their way, every cop, secret agent, and social worker character in every franchise would inevitably turn into Max Payne. In lieu of the imminence of such a dystopian hell, I have crafted what one might call a forecast. A grim warning of things to come, if we don’t take action and place improvised explosives on the rails used by the Hollywood supply-trains. In other words…

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The sun. Giver of life. Melter of ice creams. An all-around top-notch ball of incandescent gas. Yet behind that orb of brightness dwells a past of darkness. Of all the alleged scientific “facts”, none satisfactorily explain its motivation. Neither you nor I would choose to burn hundreds of millions of tonnes of hydrogen each second without a good reason. Why would the average star bother?

Why, in the name of Mighty Odin, does the sun shine?

To uncover the truth, we turned to the only power greater than our mighty solar benefactor: celebrities.

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Fifty Dubious Compliments

Posted on March 8th, 2006 by Andrey Summers

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