Chicken Dragons of Doom. With The Eggs. Also Of The Doom.

If you remember (and I don’t really expect you to), the Original Chicken Dragon of Doom complete with Eggs of Doom was a San Francisco conception, scrawled on the tablecloth of a restaurant in Napa where adults were drinking wine out of 5-gallon plastic paint buckets and little children were encouraged to visit the do-it-yourself Bloody Mary bar. You can read about it in the blandest, vaguest tones possible here. What’s missing from that description, however, and what I will get into now, is why and how the Chicken Dragon of Doom and Her Wily, Wily Offspring are thematically important. Allow me to break it down for you so that you may be properly emotionally blackmailed by the Passive Aggressive Chicken Dragon of Doom:

The San Francisco trip was the yearly retreat for a charitable group of businessmen that R belongs to. Ah, and their wives and significant others; as the group doesn’t allow women to be actual members, they like to wisk the women away for a weekend every year and indulge in lots of champagne breakfasts, Nomination bracelet charms and candid slide shows in a thinly-veiled yet annually successful effort to keep the pesky vaginas at the testical-fortified gate. By and large this doesn’t bother me; I’m down with champagne and hey, find me anyone who doesn’t like a good candid slide show. If I wanted to be part of a club that wears brown chest-high wranglers, bolo ties and black felt vests to march in parades with the sheriff’s posse and then hit the titty bar, well, I’d go ahead and start one of my own… right after I shot myself in the face. The primary problem I have is being surrounded by all of these women who are twice my age and who therefore naturally assume that I’m a hooker. The concentrated “she’s a hooker” energy is strong, and by that last day I’m more than a little on edge. Plus I’m ready to slam into the hospitality suite in a leopard-print gig with clear plastic platforms and a boom box and start laying down the fondling ground rules because I’m overly susceptible to outside influences like that. I’m tense, is what I’m getting at here. Tense with three energy-deflecting bras on. And so when R and I are alone and I no longer feel the need to act like a forty-five year old housewife, I freak out and turn into a ten-year-old boy. With no bras on of any specification. I’m petulant and bossy and whiny and full of resentment and I aim it all at R because it’s naturally his fault that I let myself be Hester Prynn’d by all the middle-aged puritan bitches in their glued-on, semi-precious stone charmed Nomination bracelets. So when, during the course of the day, R attempts by any means possible to a) lessen the tension, b) enjoy his vacation, c) explain that the reason that I’ve never been in a slideshow, not even once, not even in the background, is certainly NOT because they think that film work isn’t in my contract and therefore must be “extra“, we stop at the afore mentioned alcohol-soaked bistro, R sits back resignedly as I try my damndest to annoy and/or ANNOY him. Hence, the Chicken Dragon of Doom. The Eggs of Doom were a last-ditch annoyance effort, as their addition required that I go and steal a yellow crayon from a tipsy, celery-smoking toddler. Alas, R couldn’t be budged. This may or may not have had something to do with three empty 5-gallon paint buckets on the floor next to our table. So. Totally superfluous backstory in tow, let’s check out the chicken dragons. And eggs. Of doom.

Styro, I’m seriously thinking about having this tattooed on my person. Or airbrushed on my car. Something. If ever I saw a blood spill that looked decidedly like hot blood, this is it. Girl, did you do that head freehand? Goddamn. HEY-- is that a solitary FANG on the tip of the beak?!? He’s so fucking cool he doesn’t even have to open his beak to impale you in the skull. Or open a Rolling Rock. His egg sidekick reminds me of Eddie Haskell. I think it’s because of the blood spraying out of his mouth.

K, I love this painstaking metamorphosis: it’s like dead cooked chicken meets dead cooked lizard. Perfect. And those eggs? Just when you’re through chuckling at the play on “devil” and you pop one in your mouth you realize that you’re now a walking salmonella cesspool, thanks in part to the fact that the sun is somehow hanging eight inches above the surface of the earth. Is that lipstick on her beak? Or did she just bore face-first into a dead cat? Wait, don’t tell me. Bonus points for the bow. And the weave.

Doesn't Bob's chicken dragon look sort of pale and sticky raw? Like his wings are already pinned back and ready for basting? Maybe he was all trussed up but then escaped to wreak revenge havoc. Like some undercooked, evil superhero nemesis. And don’t the Eggs of Doom look like little white mice demons? That’s a hell of a beak job, too; it’s like a piece of American cheese folded in half, and really, what’s scarier than a Kraft single left to its own devices? GOD ONLY KNOWS WHAT IT‘S CAPABLE OF. Extra points for a tongue that keeps inexplicably reminding me of a pimento.

Uh, Brooks? If I ever design a Tarot deck for the inoperably misanthropic, this will be the card that stands for “buy a wig, steal a car and get the fuck out of town”. Why can’t I quit looking at the sun??? It’s like it KNOWS. I seriously get the impression that the chicken is THIS CLOSE to taking off after something. I’d be running for the door except that I know he’s got to get that hand retracted before he does anything, and that’s bound to give me a headstart. That one long claw that looks like a sexy leg is freaking me out. I keep expecting it to get up and start tap dancing. A+ for Apocalyptic Mood Air. I mean, you can tell a lot of shit just got real burned down.

Oh my God, when I’m through here I’m going to pitch this to the Beanie Baby people. Why am I surprised at the cuddliness of this Chicken Dragon? ERIKA. Whose Mister Pinky Spare Hair won the hearts of millions of liberal minded, pro-retarded citizens? Look at those little black bead eyes! That fire breath looks like confetti. "Reach out and meet my hug!" he coos. "I come from a smoke-free home! No pets! Still in my original packaging and with all my tags!" God be with us all.

I love Chip's entries because he keeps it really basic. It's Chip and Microsoft Paint. Fuck anything else. If he can't make it happen with that Paint pencil or autoshape thing or that fat paintbrush gig, it's just not going to fucking happen. He and I have that in common. As my "married way below her caliber" friend L's husband would say while pumping the keg on any given Tuesday, "He's my brotha' from anotha' motha'." He would say it all proud, too, 'cause he rhymed. And that's how I feel. Proud. You can tell someone has a wife here... he spelled "L'eggs" correctly. And the little pair of spindly hose over there in the corner? Precious and demented at the same time. Um, does her tail deadend into a L'eggs ball? That's sort of hard for me, in an M.C. Escher way. Stop laughing.

Holy Jesus, Michelle. Where should I start? First of all, the chicken’s entire back half looks like it’s made out of a black leather backpack. With a combover. So it's "1993 in Detroit" scary right off the bat. Hey, is she actually laying eggs right NOW? I wish I could see one of the hatchlings. Maybe they’re tiny little suede coin purses. With fangs. Excellent job on that wing; methinks someone used to have a Dragonslayer poster. Shhh. It’s cool. In the sequel let's add a virgin princess and let the suede babies gnaw the shit out of her. It'll only tickle for a couple of days. Then it'll start to sting. Awwwwyeah.

So Scott, do you and your lovely bride lay awake at night thinking of ways to scare the shit out of each other? Did she go, “Oooh! I’ll do a scary-ass volcano and a chicken made out of bondage gear!” and you went, “Righteous! I’ll do a street-fighter chicken and poke fun at Estella’s erratic swings!” Okay, but seriously. Three things are fucking me up, here: 1) those chicken legs. Did you hire a chicken gang-banger to pose for you? What did he charge you? ‘Cause I think I got ripped off. 2) BONE HAND. WOW. 3) That’s the most realistic knife that Paint has to offer. Look at me. I’m about to crap my pants.

P.S. When I die, you and Michelle inherit this site.

I’ve decided that I’m going to adopt Sara Elizabeth. I’m not sure how old she is, and she probably has parents and all, but I’m adopting her just the same. Now that that’s out of the way, I’d like to point out that this is the first entry that appears to be fueled by a Dragon Hose. Is this a Bouncy Chicken? Can you rent this chicken dragon for parties and let children jump inside him? Because that’s disgusting. I love that his beak is a runway. And those eggs? The one that says “poison” and the one that’s joyfully spotted? Yeah. I bet they’re reversed. On purpose. On account of the evil.

I’m so enamored. Snailie wrote to me that she misinterpreted the assignment and thought that I meant “doomed eggs”. Then I got a rather stirring account of her only other Paint experience. I think Paint must run through her veins; I mean, how much thought went into those egg stools? I mean, “algebraic equation” type precision thought. A LOT. And those cards? If I wasn’t so arrogant and overly-secure in my own Paint abilities I might feel the tiniest bit insignificant. “Scared” on these eggs is like “weird” on Bjork. If I had a gallery , and that gallery had a “grim reaper chicken” wall, I’d totally sign you.

Kelly, this is like Santa’s evil twin. Let‘s break down the similarities:

1) Knows where you sleep.
2) Rotund belly full of jelly. Or, in this case, jellied carcass. Same thing.
3) Hippity-hops and delivers baskets of candy and colored eggs to remind us that Jesus Christ the Son of God rose from the dead to forgive us of our sins.
4) Is a chicken dragon.

Nice beak waddle thing. And badass fat legs. I’m thoroughly impressed. I’d like a rope-start blender for Christmas. Get off my lap.

Wow, Kim. I can hardly focus on the Foghorn Leghorn fire-screaming chicken you’ve got going there because of your mischievous eggs. There’s a murderer, an annoying one, and a lame ass one. All accounted for, if you’re looking for something “Three Horsemen”-ish. Oh, wait. And a dead one. Well, that works, since it’s really “FOUR Horsemen” and I’m retarded. I love the feather in Murderer’s hat. How jovial! Is Lame Ass sneezing? Hes’ so cute and so lame at the same time! Ooooh! Look at the chalk! I better stop now. I feel like I’m at an Eggs of Doom petting zoo. Only they forgot to scoop up the dead one. Which happens. Mainly in small towns in the rural south, but it happens just the same.

R is on the couch right now, listlessly watching Entourage. Maybe in a minute I'll sigh and get up and go to bed, and then later he can walk in and go, "What's wrong?" and I can go, "Nothing." Then our little circle of passive aggression will have come full... ah, circle. Thank you for your participation. You know I love you.
 
¶ posted by Erin on Sunday, August 29, 2004