The Chicken Feed

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Andrey: Christmas means many things to many people. To us at the Rubber Chicken, for example, it means nothing. Much like the Jews of the field and the Blacks of the air, we adorn ourselves come December in the colors of our own dark festival.

This storied ritual, known to the billions of people who celebrate it every years as Saint Crispin’s Day, is that time of year when families come together to exchange gifts and celebrate the yule-tide cheer that powers us through the remaining eleven months of every gruelling annum.

Saint Crispin’s Day is the Christmas of media-hijacked religious holidays, and via the soft-padded alternate universe of our podcast, we now invite you to have a nibble at the ceremonial moose-head, stuff some gifts in your kids’ shoes, and wring in St. Crispin’s with us like the heathen kings of old did.

We would have invited you to do this on December 25th, but people were busy for some reason.

Starring
Andrey Summers, Tim Morrison, Fiona Revill, Michael Cope and “Dave”.
with Brett Cullen, Alastair Craig and Gord Myren

Written and compiled by Andrey Summers
Additional editing by Alastair Craig

Directly Download MP3

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Now with Episode Commentary (after the jump)

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Wanna B N Angel

Posted on June 13th, 2008 by Gord Myren

A modern hip-hop ballad (like the kids like) about lofty career aspirations.
The closing song of Podcast 204 – The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Podcast

Download MP3
Add to MySpace profile

Lyrics by Andrey Summers.  Music by Gord Myren.
Recorded by the Red Square Collective.

More songs from The Rubber Chicken Podcast

Lyrics after the jump

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Santa Klau-au-auss

Posted on December 26th, 2006 by Gord Myren

The culturally-sensitive closing song of the 2006 Christmas Podcast.

Download MP3
Add to MySpace profile

Music written and performed by Gord Myren.
Lyrics written and performed by Andrey Summers.
Recorded by the Red Square Collective.

More songs from The Rubber Chicken Podcast

Lyrics after the jump

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Andrey: As a gifted orator once said, “I’m a slave 4 U”. For twelve hours straight we toiled, to bring you what is possibly the most putritly festive, grotesque, bloated half-hour holiday special imaginable. That’s right- I said half hour. In Canada, it’s quantity over quality, and with Alastair Europe-bound, Gord and I have seen fit to deliver a Christmas Podcast to end not only other such Podcasts, but also possibly civilization as a whole.

Hold on to your hat, and wait impatiently for the 27MB MP3 to download. Trust me: it’s worth it. Nine out of our ten listeners recommend it.

Dramatis Personae
Gord Myren
Andrey Summers
Emily Horn
Fiona Revill
Sonny Bobardt
with Cathy Hronek, Dan Horn, Adrienne Paulson and “Dave”.

Written by
Andrey Summers
James Simpson
Fiona Revill

Original Music by
Gord Myren
with “Santa Klau-au-auss” Lyrics written and performed by Andrey Summers

Directly Download MP3

Subscribe to TRC Podcast to stay up-to-date with new shows.
iTunes / Google Reader / myAOL / My Yahoo / Bloglines.

Continue reading for episode commentary

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Mailbag: Jesus Wants Spiritual Fruit

Posted on February 28th, 2006 by Ben K

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Dear Formless Underlord,

My boyfriend and I have been dating for almost a year now, and we’ve gotten pretty “close” in the “bedroom”, but we never seem to be able to go all the way. I’m his first girlfriend, and I know he’s very attracted to me…so what do I do to finally fire things up??

Lindsay

Hail Mortal Lindsay.

Do not concern yourself with “firing things up” during your worthless affairs of the flesh. All will be consumed by the black flame of the Crimson Kingdom in the course of the eternal star-scape. If you desire the fleeting communal pleasure that your Other refuses to grant, you may drive a dagger into his heart during the Rite of Baphomet, and this symbolic emasculation, as you enter him with your own deadly phallic symbol will banish his self-consciousness forever into the lightless ether. His body is yours.

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Amazonian Ethel

Posted on December 1st, 2005 by Alastair Craig

Reader Reviews from TRC’s Resident Puritan Nutcase

We’re sorry – we really don’t know how it happened, but what’s done is done and there’s no use making excuses. Somebody has introduced our favourite fictitious fundimentalist critic, Ethel Roberts, to Amazon.com.

Yes, Ethel Roberts. Crusader for the good and champion of the pure. She emerges now, shielded with self-righteousness and sething with strongly worded paragraphs, here to let the world at large now how she feels about not only this, but also that. Especially that.

Come with her now as she snaps on the rubber gloves and runs a finger around the inside of Amazon.com’s Reader Reviews section.

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Mailbag: Highly Adjective Noun

Posted on September 18th, 2005 by Mister Bung

This edition is dedicated to The Other Guy From “Wham!


Still doing a wonderful job of not being George Michael.

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In Loving Memory of Pope John Paul II

Posted on April 23rd, 2005 by Mister Bung

With the upturned toadstool, the nervous wristwatch exploded with the volume of a small teacup. For it was questioning its own sexuality, when in fact it was enjoying a nice cup of existensialism.  At which point, to Sir Lancelot’s dismay, his pants exploded. The evil turnip’s machinations crumbled to dust and cute little fairy sprinkles around him. It was time to start anew. With radishes.

Now, hop up on Uncle Harold’s lap, won’t you, Billy?  I’ve a tale to tell.

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Stream of Consciousness

Posted on February 8th, 2005 by Andrey Summers

The story I’m trying to tell you if you’d just shut up and listen to me happened when I was riding my chopper down the I5 and got flagged over by a filthy degenerate who needed help jump-starting his junked out crack-van. I told him buddy, listen, this is a god-damned motorbike, but he said all he really needed to get on the road was some hot, casual intercourse. I said hell no, I’m not some kind of queer, so not until I see a passport, birth certificate or other form of legit identification. He, of course, was unable to produce such a document, so again I was left a virgin, weeping to myself on the roadside. How long, I wondered, until I would finally cast away these bitter shackles, forget these dark blizzards that struck every night of my hated innocence?

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