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.
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
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Here we are in Paris, France, enjoying ourselves at the expense of what we at ThatChickenSite.com naively consider your entertainment. (This chicken, purchased in Barcelona, Spain, represents everyone else’s motivation, which always leaves when I do. It’s an awkward metaphor, yes. Let’s not dwell.)
Upon returning, it’s time for a long-overdue all-star action makeover. TRC has transformed considerably under this design’s iron dictatorship, virtually into an entirely new site twice over. The time has come, the walrus said, to catch the fuck up already.
That means stripping the operation down to its pasty white foundations: silly movies, the nitpicking of obscure early 90s cartoons, and anything else that maintains the sense of fun that has made this site such a joy to work on (when we could be bothered), over the last seven years. Anything not serving the Prime Directive will be unceremoniously swept under the couch or tweaked with enough reckless historical revisionism to give George Lucas violent convulsions.
The podcast shall bounce back for a second, more sketch show-y season. Shed no tears; we’ll try to space episodes more evenly between other material. The last few months of podcast-podcast-podcast was a necessary evil – a refreshing break from spelling and punctuation, and hopefully one you enjoyed. But it was just a phase. Like puberty, but with canoes in place of erections.
And did I mention regular updates?
Ha ha ha, no, I most certainly did not.