Atyllah the Hen - Chicken with Attitude

2007-07-04T14:32:00.001+02:00

The Chicken, aka Atyllah the Hen, Chicken with Attitude, disenchanted with rampant levels of human fuckwittage, has flown the coop. However....

Something's happening... over here...

(As you know, it's hard to keep an irrepressible Chicken down...)

2007-05-25T08:35:00.000+02:00

The Chicken Has Flown the Coop...

...but is finding it hard to leave humanity well enough alone... (I mean you're just so interesting - and damned funny - to watch!)

Nevertheless, with the kind support of my friend Shameless, I've found yet another way of keeping an eye on you all... Yes! From now on, although not active, this blog will be guarded by one of Shameless's magnificent Lyon Lions - only this Lion, who will be joining me in Novapulse, is actually a Novalion (title courtesy of one Minx)

You could also have lion, if you asked really nicely and promised to put any thoughts of animal cruelty aside - face it, you don't want to mess with a lion anyway, unless you want to end up as the filling in a lion's lunch sandwich... If you want to know more, go here and here

And now, meet KASHGAR, my Novalion.

Kashgar has told me he is a Lion of Many Worlds, Paths and Plains. His name, it appears, means "variegated houses" and given his beautiful colouring, noble Kashgar is himself, a variegated lion - with Zen inclinations...

Shameless has asked that a poem, inspired by Kashgar, be written and so, together, Kashgar and I have written a poem which we have dedicated to Aunt Aggie.

Interconnection & Impermanence

A hand rises...

Pebble plops
ripples shimmer
towards the shore.
A droplet splashes
the earth
moistens the seed
resting below.
Shoot rises up
to meet the sun.
Flower blooms
and is kissed
by the honeybee.
All is One
and
constantly changing.

A hand rises...

Words form on a page
the present
shifts
to the future...
The world alters
and
they're not just words
anymore.

Now, you take care, be good and remember - Kashgar and I are watching you! And best you keep watching too, you never know when or where I might reappear... Yes, indeed, you may tremble!

2007-05-17T09:04:00.000+02:00

Birthday Reflections on the Fuckwittage of Humanity - and Over and Out

Well oiled on "tasmanian devil juice", I've been watching planet Earth from afar - and muttering - a lot. Not only were the doings of humanity the result of my beloved Aunt Aggie's demise, but you horrible lot have had me flat on my back for far too long. Human Allergic Condition. I ask you. What a horrible thing. You should be ashamed of yourselves. No wonder the Andromedans can't afford to send envoys here. Given their heightened levels of sensitivity and empathy, they'd take one sniff of Earth's air, keel over and evaporate into the cosmic energy. And we can't have that now, can we. (It's a rhetorical question, no need to answer it.)

But here I sit, in a sanctuary in Novapulse, keeping my beady on you - and on Chicken Man, who, it must be said, in the face of the most unbelievable human doings and screwings is performing a pretty sterling job of trying to not only save the trees, but preserve the recreational space of thousands of the Mugger City's people, particularly those who've previously had to do without. But we won't get into the politics of the thing - because, by the Corncob, then you really do see human fuckwittage on a tremendous scale.

But it's time for me to sit back and reflect ("tasmanian devil juice" notwithstanding) on the human condition. See, it's my birthday tomorrow... "Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me...tra la laa..." and birthdays in Novapulse are always a time of consideration and contemplation. And, since my last year has mostly been spent on Earth, it is not surprising that it is Earth and my relationship to it and its beings (and, erm, doings) that I find myself pondering. And the thing that hits me squarely in the beak everytime is well, fuckwittage.

What can I say, in a galaxy full of all sorts of beings, humanity does stand out as the grand high lama of right plonkerdom. As Aunt Aggie so often used to say, the trouble with humanity is ego. Me. Me. Me. There is, amongst the far wider population, simply no sense of the bigger picture, no realisation that actually, your little lives are all but an illusion, a dream created by the mind, driven by ego. If I consider the things I have seen Chicken Man deal with over the past few weeks, I am beaksmacked at the myopia of the human condition - and the viciousness. Everyone has a personal agenda. Everyone wants recognition. The greater good is a concept grasped only by a very few who struggle to swim against the surging, clamouring tide of Me's. Everyone is worried about profit, image, fame, power. Aside from Me Me Me, it's also all Gimme, Gimme, Gimme. You just have to look at the state of the world to grasp that. Yes, dear, please do take off your rose-tinted spectacles, it's really not that rosie from where I'm sitting.

There is very little sense amongst humans of the interconnectedness of all life. Some do seem to grasp it, but they are few and far between. But bless them, they do try. They do pray for the enlightenment of the rest, but the rest have their noses so far up their own tails that they're really not able to smell the roses - only that other stuff - which, really, doesn't smell too good at all - but they seem to like it. (Nothing like getting high on the smell of your of your own shite, right?) But no, the simple reality is this, most humans, bound up in ego, see only as far as the ends of their own noses and forget that there is a big picture, fail to realise that they are in fact a part of the cosmic energy which is everything and everywhere - that they are it and it is they. No, instead they see themselves as lone islands or at most, archipelagoes - but never do they see themselves as a unified entity - and unified not just to each other and the rest of the beings on the planet but to the rest of us in the entire multiverse - warts and all. And as long as humanity and individual humans fail to grasp the interconnectedness of all life, not just on earth but Everywhere, and as long as they fail to recognise that they are souls and, as such, pure cosmic energy and that this short duration that they spend on earth, is well, like a bad holiday at Butlins well, human fuckwittage will prevail. And frankly, I just can't be doing with it anymore. There is just that much that this Chicken can take.

Besides, as some of you have been kind enough to point out to me, you don't like being constantly lectured to by an alien Chicken who thinks she knows better. The fact that I am in the position to take the objective view seems to be offensive to some... Tsk and Tchah, to you, my dear. But I'll grant you this, blathering on about the failings of humanity, wittering away about the inanity of the human condition and ranting and snarking on about the fuckwittage of people is, quite frankly, getting boring. And us Chickens do so hate to be bored.

And so it is, given these reflections, given that I'm about to be another year older, given my bout of Human Allergic Condition and after lengthy discussions with High Command, it has been decided that Novapulse will leave Earth to its fate. I have gathered in my time on Earth a substantial dossier of information which will be compiled into a report for the Allied Federation of Intergalactic Associations - with recommendations. Chicken Man, bless him, has decided he's also had enough of his own species and is going to join me on Novapulse. And yes, dear readers, that means it's over and out from me, Atyllah the Hen, Chicken with Attitude. I will not be returning to Earth and I will not be warbling on about the human condition anymore. But if you think, for just one minute, that I won't still be watching, you'll be sorely mistaken. So be afraid, be very afraid, because the entire multiverse has its eye on you. Best you be good! And do try to stop beating each other up and just play nicely. Do it for Aunt Aggie if not for yourselves.

It's been fun, but now it's done.

Peace, harmony, happiness, love, good health, joy, laughter, tranquility and, above all, enlightenment to you all.

Over and out
Atyllah the Hen

Ba-kaaaaaaak!

2007-05-06T13:35:00.000+02:00

El Pollo Loco

She's alive, she's getting well, but she's bouncing off the walls... So says Granny Were reporting to me on Atyllah's well being.

It seems the colloquially named "Tasmanian Devil Juice" that Novapulsian physicians have had Atyllah on to combat the Human Allergic Condition is having dire side effects. It seems to have brought out that tiny streak of Wereness in Atyllah.

The Novapulsians have resultantly ordered her to a sanctuary or a retreat, I can't quite work out just what it is. There, she's supposed to take it easy. But as Granny says, "Ha, ha, on Tasmanian Devil Juice there's no chance of that - our girl will be wired to the gills! Go Atyllah!"

Yes, well...

It seems, unable to shake the destruction of trees from her mind, Atyllah has been plotting and scheming and I, for my sins, have been drawn into her machinations.

So, okay, I confess, the reason Atyllah's blog has been so quiet is that we're all bound up in trees.

For my part, I consider it a gesture to our dearly beloved Aunt Aggie - I know how much she loved to linger and meditate in the dappled shade of pines, oaks and gums. I know how much creativity she drew from them. So if I can help Atyllah to save the trees, that's what I will do.

Of course, being but a mere human, I take slightly different approach to Atyllah - and resultantly have found myself caught up in preparing a massive report for the City Fathers. Would that I had some of Atyllah's Tasmanian Devil Juice, it would certainly help move things along and rattle a few cages!

So, for all those who've been wondering, now you know. Things are busy, busy, busy and with Atyllah out of town and unable to manage this blog herself, I'm afraid things have just slipped. Please do accept my humble and groveling apologies - but let's hear it for the trees!

Yours up a tree
Chicken Man

2007-04-25T17:08:00.000+02:00

An update on Atyllah

Good news from Novapulse! Atyllah is recovering! Novapulsian physicians and healers have been able to stem the internal bleeding and with much rest, Atyllah is starting to respond to treatment and care. Granny Were keeps me posted at least three times a day by telepathically barging into my thoughts. She says she doesn't want to run the risk of me going "native" - this, I assume, means that she's worried I'll forget all hennish enlightenment - as if I could!

Meanwhile, I've been going through Atyllah's files and documents and uncovered this piece which I don't believe she ever shared with you. So, for what it's worth, I share Atyllah's thoughts on "taxonomy"

Boxes, Little Boxes

Humanity, for some reason best known to itself, appears unduly unhappy when it cannot box things. Everything on this little planet has to be classified, numbered, ordered, categorised and neatly put in place. As though creation is a neat and orderly thing! Pah! Humans call it taxonomy and to my mind, show an unhealthy interest in making everything "just so". I mean, what's the point? What is the bloody point? All the organisms and species out there couldn't give a damn. They just quietly get on with the business of staying connected to the great cosmic energy, going about their day to day activities, feeding, finding shelter, breeding, rumbling, bubbling, gushing... - and they do a very good job of it too. They're not out there trying to make sense of something that doesn't want sense made of it in the first place. They simply are. They "be" - something, it strikes me, that human are incapable of.

It's strange, you know, this human propensity for doing. Always doing, never being. I don't know why on earth they ever called themselves human beings - should have called themselves human doings...

Of course, you may wonder what's brought this particular bent of thought to mind. It's simply this - it's that tree saving business I recently mentioned to you. Not content to let natural systems be and evolve, the particular bunch of human palookas determined to ensure the decimation of a happy little green lung in the Mugger City have decided that only certain species of flora and fauna may be allowed to grow. So-called alien specimens must go. Frankly, I find it all decidedly xenophobic - as if xenophobia wasn't already in sufficient existence on the planet and this continent. I don't suppose humans though ever stopped to consider how said alien specimens might feel about all this - especially given how they've happily adapted to their environment, put down roots, sent up spores and reared litters of young in the leaf mould... Adapted, generally speaking - something that humans like to praise themselves for, despite all contrary indications that they really loathe and detest change and disorder.

But there's just no peace and no end to the nonsense of humanity is there...
And so, along came a botanist and said, "Here historical evidence indicates the presence of Domain Y, Kingdom X, Phylum A, Class C, Species W, Subspecies H, Genus K..."
I mean who, for the Corncob's sake actually gives a damn? Okay, so the botanist and the scientist and the anthropologist and the zoologist and the etomologist and the paleontologist and the climatologist's and all the other gists who clearly have no real life of their own, do. But you know what the worst of it is, the more these people meddle and organise and collate and the more they think they know, the less they really do know. Their vision becomes so myopic that all they can see is the zit on the end of their nose. The bigger picture vanishes into eternal obscurity while the gist obsesses of the particular and grows increasingly blind to the general. Of course this narrow visions means that they completely forget the nature of well, nature. They forget the meaning and purpose of life. The wisdom they were born with withers up and dies within them. And humanity, so prone to bowing down and worshipping at the feet of its eminent gists, becomes still more and more blinkered in it's outlook. Which is why, of course, the likes of you sitting there in front of your monitor assume I must be a figment of someone's fertile imagination because no gist has ever found me or discovered a way of classifying me! Ha! Call me Atyllah the Elusive Hen!

With the whole planet neatly ordered and boxed, life becomes, thinks humanity, albeit it mistakenly, tame. Ha ha. As if life could be tamed. As if Ma Nature has any intention of ever rolling over and having her tummy tickled. Humanity would, frankly, be better off trying to tickle the tummy of a hungry (genus) Panthera (species) tigris (subspecies) tigris or play house in a volcano - provided you have of course done your homework and first classified your chosen volcano by lava chemistry, tectonic setting, size, eruptive character, geographic location, present activity and morphology.

The trouble with insisting on putting everything into little boxes is that you reduce everything to a certain, supposedly manageable, sameness - and where's the fun, the mystery and the joy of creation in that? Huh? Taxonomy simply reduces the miracle of life, death and All into sterilized pigeon holes. It's no small wonder then that so many humans have lost touch with the soul pool, the great beyond, the infinite void - it's no wonder then that they flounder around the universe, kidding themselves of course that they're not floundering - who us, no never - and happily mucking things up as they go. In its increasingly narrow thinking, all humanity has succeeded in doing is losing touch with all the innate, inner wisdom with which it initially incarnated. In short, by trying to make sense of everything all humans have done is to become horribly anally retentive. Yes it's true. And so we have the great mass of humanity sitting there hoovering up the chairs with its collective bum. Strange, really very strange. And not, I might add, a tad unconfortable and unhygienic - I mean, where has that chair been, Lucille!?

Ba-kaaaak!

2007-04-19T14:16:00.000+02:00

Get well soon Atyllah, Farewell Aunt Aggie

The news, I'm afraid, from Novapulse is not good. Atyllah continues to ail and Aunt Aggie, showing no signs of recovery, edges closer to the other dimension and what lies beyond. Granny Were, for her own safety, has been evacuated to Novapulse where Novapulsian physicians continue to attempt to discover a cure for what has become known as the Human Allergic Condition (HAC). I am left alone in the Hen House and it is strange, after all the months in the company of the Hens, to be on my own...

I did receive a transmission via the teleportal communication system from Novapulse this morning. As Aunt Aggie stands on the edge of life, Novapulsian wise elders have been transcribing her thoughts. It appears that even in her final moments, she has had humanity in mind. The following is a transcript of Aunt Aggie's thoughts...

Humanity, poor humanity... they strive to embrace life and in doing so forget the flip side of the coin. In pursuing life, they run away from its balance - death. They believe, their very literature and religious traditions encourages them to do so, that death is something to be feared and shunned. There can be no greater mistake. For the solution to the riddle, "what is life?", is "death". It is in embracing death that humanity will in fact finally overcome its ego, it's constant search and quest, the constant doing, fighting, grabbing, raping, pillaging and plundering. They should never have called themselves human beings, but human doings. For as they seek to clutch onto life all they do is "do" - they fail to "be" - and yet that is in essence what they should be - human beings...
If only they could learn to embrace death, see it not as some undefined, black-cloaked enemy, but the great tranquility that lies entwined with arms of life. For surely, as day follows night follows day, so life follows death follows life. The continuous cycle of the soul... embraced in the concept humans call God...
In life, the human ego dominates, surging over the quietude and wisdom of the soul, forgetting the memory of the soul through a thousand incarnations... Yet the soul knows... The peace that humanity yearns for, the security, the surety, lies not in life, but in death.
As I stand here and look to the other side I see a great shining white-gold light - heaven, humans would call it - they would, in their limited constructs, be right. For the ultimate peace they seek lies in that light, in the infinite void that is death, the beyond, the soul pool, the source of all creation...
How can they fear such tranquility? It is a homecoming. Not a departure. How can they believe that all their living days they must run away from it? Why are they so unable to turn and face it, befriend it, embrace it? In doing so they would see that it is but the other side of "God's" face... They would relinquish then the ego and embrace the soul. The constant questing, striving and all the very unpleasant doings of humanity would cease to be, they would realise there simply is no point... No point in warring, harming, destroying, cheating... No point in amassing great wealth that they cannot take with them. They would realise that the realities of what they call "life" is all illusion and delusion - all constructs of the human ego... none of it real in the greater scheme of things... none of it lasting...
Being, life... would that they could know that it is not about running in fear and acquiring material possessions but that it is about the energy of the wind, the sea, the cycles of the seasons, the power of the volcano and the tsunami... that keeping in step with the elemental forces of the wisdom of nature... That is life - the simple business of feeling the wind in one's feathers... the simple business that begins and ends and begins and ends again... a rollling tide... embraced always by the white gold light of the soul... the place of pure beingness...
Ah, if only... if only humans could learn to embrace death, not to fear it, and so to set themselves free of the shackles of ego, possession and acquisition - they cannot take any of it with them... only the soul travels beyond.
All those beauty creams and anti aging potions, they all come to naught. All the wealth cannot buy eternity. One steps through the doorway, into the light, to reach eternity...
Death is heaven, life, for humanity, I fear, is hell. But so few of them realise this... and so they continue to rage and compete against one another and destroy their beautiful home... ah the fear and greed that signifies the human condition...
Dear Ones... ah dear ones... what lessons you have yet to learn...

Dear Friends of the Hens, since transcribing the above onto Atyllah's blog, I've received another transmission from Novapulse. Aunt Aggie has passed through the doors of the beyond... I am told to tell you to take comfort that her last thoughts were of you and that she smiles upon you from the other side, saying only this... "Embrace death, it is your friend, you will live better lives if you cease to be afraid of the infinite void..."

I am deeply saddened by Aunt Aggie's passing, but I have come to learn that the world as we humans see it, is just a very small thing, we, are very small things, our vision limited. There are wonders out there, beyond our comprehension, Aunt Aggie taught me that.
For now, I can only hope that my dear Atyllah will recover. Whether she will ever return to Earth remains to be seen. I somehow doubt it. The Novapulsians have been, and rightly so, alarmed by the impact of the human condition on their people. I have heard that word has been sent to recall all Novapulsians from Earth - Agent Double Cluck, Gino the Chicken, even Dumphuck McCluck and his younger brother the Ugly Phuckling who recently returned to Earth on a reprieve. I suspect our world will be the poorer for not having them with us. And without them how will we withstand Draconian influence...?

I will endeavour to keep you posted on any further developments until I receive word that this blog is to be closed.

Yours
Chicken Man

Rest in peace, dearest Aunt Aggie...

... be well soon, Atyllah.

2007-04-15T07:55:00.000+02:00

Granny Posts - Poor Aggie

Vile humanity! Ghastly, wicked, rotten species! If I could get deal all humanity one swift, sharp peck to the jugular, I'd do so and put you out of my misery! See what you've done! Just see!

My poor dear Aggie has taken ill. Violently ill and has had to be rushed back to Novapulse suffering from a condition that can best be described as an excess of human toxicity.
Atyllah has gone with her and left me here to protect Chicken Man from all those ghastly criminal types.
What a world this is. What a species humanity is! Appalling!

The violence you wreak on one another and your planet, the rubbish you eat, the way you meddle with nature and alter your natural food stuffs by tampering with genetic coding, your sheer greed and cruelty. I swear you're nothing more than Draconian clones. It can't be otherwise.

And oh, oh, oh, my poor Aggie, she's absorbed, despite all her meditations and prayers, all your wicked poisons into her own downy body.

First her feathers started to pale and fall out. Then she complained of a sore head. Then her tummy started to trouble her. Then she started to bleed internally and double over in pain. None of her own remedies and meditations - and you know Aggie's immense strength and power - could help her. Desperate, we contacted High Command. They put the very best physicians on the case. For a while everyone was baffled and then it struck us all at once. Aggie was poisoned - by an excess of the human condition!

You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Aggie wouldn't harm a fly (even though I like to snack on them). Aggie is nothing other than goodness and light, a force for enlightenment, love and joy. And now she lies in her nest in Novapulse, tubes stuck into her, potions fed to her and Novapulse's wisest, most enlightened chickens praying over her.

Hoooooooowwwooool!

Of course, self absorbed creatures that you are, I know this will make no difference to you. You'll just say, "Shame, poor Aunt Aggie, I hope she gets better soon," and go back to painting your toe nails, feathering your nest, eating your genetically modified chicken burgers (screeeeeeeech!) and tearing your neighbour's throat out because he has oil and you don't! Oh yes, you'll muddle along on your own merry ways and not spare poor dear Aggie another thought - out of sight, out of mind - yes, that's humans. Vile, wicked, selfish species!

Ba-kaaaaaaaaak!

A note from Chicken Man:

Erm, as one human to another... I know we're not all bad and some of us are actually a lot more aware and caring than Granny would have us think... And I know many of you will be deeply concerned about poor Aunt Aggie - and so we should be. If humanity has this effect on her, what effect do you think we have on ourselves. Food for thought, eh?

2007-04-12T13:09:00.000+02:00

Lethal Weapon

Given the state of play, I mean, crime, in the less than rosy Rainbow Nation, it is probably unsurprising that word of Granny's lunar activities in clearing up the neighbourhood got out.

I had a call yesterday from the MD of the local security company (yes, we have security company's here to look after us as the police seem unable to cope). He said, in somewhat hushed tones, that a snitch had told him how a whole lot of the "boys" had met an untimely end. He said the fellow had muttered something about an enraged chicken. I heard him swallow very loudly. Then he asked somewhat nervously whether Granny might be willing to work with one of his patrol teams.

Granny, needless to say, was delighted to be of service to the community.

Though just how delighted those patrolmen were, I'm not so sure...

They collected her at eight in the evening and returned four hours later.

Three of them stood at their van, their faces pale in the waning moonlight. The fourth, a new recruit, was pale and gibbering.

Granny just look satisfied and only a single feather was out of place.

2007-04-10T07:58:00.000+02:00

The Civility Code for Bloggers

And here's one to get you all chatting amongst yourselves...

Humans, it appears are incapable of leaving well enough alone. Everything must be boxed, labelled, numbered, ordered. Free speech can only be free if it meets a defined set of rules. Hmm, why do they call it free speech then...?

And what am I warbling on about this time? Well, personally, I think it's a Draconian ploy to get humanity under some semblance of control before introducing more Draconian clones. But you tell me what you think about this idea from Mr Jimmy Wales, founder of Wikipedia and Mr Tim O'Reilly, inventor of the phrase Web 2.0. (Funny, I didn't even know you could become an inventor just for a phrase - means Granny, Aunt Aggie and I must have a string of inventions to our name - you'll probably find the rest of you do too).

In a nutshell Messrs O'Reilly and Wales have decided that blogosphere has become uncivil. Tsk. Yes, well, I can imagine why having seen some of the abuse that has flown around - but does putting rules and regulations around blogosphere resolve a lack of civility? I suspect not. I think it simply takes freedom of speech and makes a mockery of it. And, more likely, a whole new underground blogosphere will spring up. It's what censorship generally does.

Frankly, as opposed to a seven-point programme (which sounds more appropriate for recovering addicts and alcoholics...), I far prefer Dan Gilmor's single rule - be civil. And if you can't be civil, well, expect to be ignored or harassed right back.

Anyone reading this who has been subject to abuse or rudeness of one form or another knows that this is part of being out in blogosphere. Blogosphere is, after all, if my research and observations are correct, just an extension of human society - with all it's spots, warts and farting - along with it's joys, hopes, aspirations and inspirations. And let's face it, so far no one has managed to civilize humanity or human societies - despite what they may like to think - so why try to do the same in the one arena where humans feel free to express themselves.

Messrs Whatsit and Thingamummygig also take issue with anonymity. Hmm, yes, well, you know what that means don't you - anyone with a fictional or anonymous blog will have to be banned. I for one, will be on the first spacepod back to Novapulse. The Japing Ape will have to go back to his jungle. Confucious Trevaskis will have to philosophise all on his own. Minx will have to stir her cauldron of words in splendid isolation. Verillion will have to wander around Paris all on her own. Wilf will have to become a very lonely boy staring at his inventions. And so on... In fact, now that I think about it, the majority of the blogs that I love and visit will have to close down because they don't meet Messrs Whatsisface and Whatchamacallit's civility code. It strikes me that Julia Buckley and Debi Alper will be the only ones left out there...

Well, guys, it was nice knowing you.

Ba-kaaaaaak!

2007-04-09T09:53:00.000+02:00

Happy Ether - more human thillineth

Okay, I confess, I just don't get it, this thing with the eggs, bunnies and consumerism. Methinks, probably, that humanity has lost the plot yet again. Still, I give up reasoning why and will instead respond with silliness of my own.

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Ether.
Ether who?
Ether Bunny!

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Noah.
Noah who?
No-ah Ether Bunny.

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Cargo.
Cargo who?
Cargo beep-beep, knock down all the Ether Bunnieth.

Knock, Knock.
Who's there?
Boo.
Boo who?
Don't cwy, there be more Ether Bunnieth nektht year.

Ba-kaaaaak!

2007-04-04T17:47:00.000+02:00

Crime doesn't pay

Oh dear. The poor dirt men really didn't know what to make of the bundles of bin bags piled up on the verge of the HenHouse. Frankly, I'm not sure I knew what to make of them either.

Granny, you see, went on a frenzy of note. In fact of all the lunar rages we've been subject to since we've been on Earth, this last one was significant in it's wanton violence. One thing I can safely say is this: there were no bodies in the bin bags. Rather, there were bits of dismembered humans, in vast quantities - though in some instances it was hard to tell just which bits they were or what humans they'd come from.

You see, it went like this.

Aunt Aggie did her pentacle with her crystals. She sat out there and meditated long and hard. And then left the pentacle to get on to it.

Things are drawn to pentacles... or rather, they're drawn to the power of them - and boy, this one was like a honey pot to a Pooh Bear.

It seems every crim from miles around must have heeded the pull of Aunt Aggie's magic.

And Granny was waiting for them, slavvering at the beak, her eyes flashing red, feathers on end, her claws - razor-sharp - poised. Actually, no, not poised, twitching would describe them better.

Chicken Man was out there too but ultimately there wasn't that much for him to do - aside from through up prolifically every now and then as blood, gore and guts went whizzing past him.

I'm not sure how many evil-doers Granny took down - it was hard to tell from all the bits scattered about the verge. May have been 15, may have been 50. The eerie thing was she did it all in total silence. No were-howls of rage, no snarling or cussing. Frankly, some screeching would have been good. But no, in the deathly stillness of a full moon midnight the only sounds that could be heard were the occasional slop and plop of human vitals falling to the ground.

Frankly, I say "good on the old girl" - someone needed to take matters in hand since the government have clearly abdicated responsibility with the suggestion that those who whinge about crime should leave the country. Well, yes, there's something to that, and I'm waiting to hear what the Novapulsian response to my request to return home will be.

Darn, I still have blood under my talons - and I thought I'd scrubbed it all away...

2007-04-02T20:12:00.000+02:00

Maniacs are out there - and I don't mean Granny Were

It'll be full moon tomorrow night and this time I'm fully in support of what I suspect Granny has planned. Even Aunt Aggie is joining in.

You see, it has become apparent to us Hens that the Mugger City of the not-so Rainbow Nation really has earned it's name. Crime, it seems, has become a fundamental way of life. And recently the Hen House has been affected by it. Three of our neighbours foiled armed robberies in the last week. Another fellow, a suburb along, was murdered by burglars while he slurped ice-cream and watched the cricket and, a woman was nearly raped on the greenbelt at the end of our road. Of course there are bundles of other incidents but the statistics for this neck of the wood alone are a trifle alarming - it is after all not a very big suburb.

The local community newspaper reports police arrests as follows: (and bear in mind those are the handful that have been caught - most get away)
Two for murder
Two for attempted murder
13 for armed robbbery
13 for common robbery
eight for rape
five for indecent assault
87 for residential burglaries
17 for business burglaries
21 for theft of cars
19 for theft out of cars
48 for assault with grievous bodily harm
77 for common assault
one for hijacking

I could understand it if we were living in a ghetto - but we're not.

Needless to say we are a trifle twitchy and needless to say, Granny, whose comb has gone scarlet and whose talons have been sharpened, is out for revenge. Moreover, us Hens are quite determined to put the word out that trying to break into the Hen House is not going to be a smart idea.

I'm not entirely sure just what Granny has planned, but I'm sure it will be unpleasant and messy and we should see the forms of some mutilated bodies lying scattered on the verge of our peaceful suburban neighbourhood. It's a good thing Wednesday is refuse removal day - I'm hoping the dirtmen will pick up the detritus as part of their rounds.

Aunt Aggie is taking a more peaceful, albeit equally powerful approach. Full moon is the time she puts all her crystals out in the garden for re-energising and this full moon instead of laying her stones in concentric circles she's planning on laying them out in the shape of a pentagram or pentacle. She believes, that in addition to the magicked salt she will scatter around the perimeter of the Hen House, the pentagram will throw up a powerful protection. I hope she's right - because otherwise we're going to see Chicken Man out there doing Chicken Fu and having a fine old time with his new toy - a high velocity paintball gun that fires mace balls and marker balls - blind 'em and mark 'em appears to be his strategy. If all else fails, I imagine he'll haul out the stun gun - or worse. Humans (and Granny at full moon) are quite keen on violence, aren't they?

Right, on that alarming note, I'm going to bolt the security doors, shut all the windows, ensure the burglar bars are firmly in place and set the burglar alarm. Not that these actually deter Mugger City criminals - they even come in via the roof! - as Joe from next door discovered on Thursday night.

Hell, what a way to live - I think it's time to put in for an immediate transfer back to Novapulse - human violence knows no limits.

Ba-kaaaaaak!

2007-03-30T18:21:00.000+02:00

Birth of mankind

Well I'm back - and gasping as usual. It seems these days it's only the size of the gasps that differ.

And what am I snarking on about this time, you're wondering. Well I'll tell you: Birth.

First of all let me tell you about laying eggs. It's a nice, neat procedure that causes hens to coo. There's no pain, no mess and it's all very gentile - a bit of panting aside. The egg, being the shape it is, slides smoothly out the cloaca (and the cloaca, you know, is the most economical of orifices dealing with pee, poo and eggs... Hmm, did someone just go eeuurgh? Shame on you.) It's all over and done with in half a minute.

Now while I realise humans don't lay eggs, I figured that like most other animals (you are animals, you do know that, don't you?), your birth process was a simple and straightforward one. After all, if an elephant, after 22 months of gestating, simply has to squat and push and it's all over in five minutes, then surely it's that much easier for humans? Seems I was badly wrong.

I had the grave misfortune whilst undercover to witness the most terrifying and violent of scenes. A human birth.

There I was, minding my own business in the mall when suddenly I had heard a gasp and glancing up I saw a small ocean rushing towards me.
"Wha'?!" I exclaimed staring at the rotund woman to my left who was behaving like a waterfall.
"Ah," said Chicken Man, "her waters have broken."
"Is it serious?" I asked, "Must we call the Sea Rescue Institute?"
"No, silly," said Chicken Man, "It just means she's ready to give birth."
"And she pees all over the floor to do so. What's she giving birth to, a nuclear submarine?"
Chicken Man shook his head. "It's the amniotic fluid," he said.
Urgh.

The next moment the woman's face contorted and she shrieked. "Oh my god, it's starting!"
Her husband went into an immediate panic.
"What's starting," I asked, my feathers all standing on end.
"Her labour," said Chicken Man.
"What? She's going out to work when she's about to have a baby?"
"No, it's the start of the birthing process - we call the contractions, labour."
"Really? I wonder why that is.... How long does this process last."
"Depends if she's given birth before - a couple of hours to oh, well, thirteen, fourteen hours."
"13 hours - oh the Corncob! And she pulls faces like that and screams all the way through.... No wonder they call it labour."
"Tell you what," said Chicken Man, "we'll find a DVD and you can watch the whole process."
Frankly, I wasn't sure I wanted to. The woman to my left was being bundled away on a gurney, screeching blue murder.

But watch the birth process I did and I swear I shall be scarred for life. It's no small wonder humans are the violent species they are. The whole business of coming into the world is one of the most traumatic things I've ever had the misfortune to witness.

First of all the woman lies on a bed in the most compromising and unnatural of positions. Frankly, I'd have thought squatting was a more sensible position to adopt, but hey, I'm just a Chicken. Not only does she lie there, legs apart, sweat pouring off her face, her hair hanging like sodden rats' tails around her head, but she's also screaming obscenities to anyone who comes close to her. The person who seems to bear the brunt of this is her husband - but the midwife, the doctor and the nurse don't get off scott-free- though why all these extraneous others are necessary is beyond me - other species manage perfectly well all alone.

But no, the human female lies there screeching, "Ooooooow! Pain, Pain! Get this fucking thing out of me now! I'll kill you, you fucking bastard," she bellows, glowering at her husband, "It's all your fucking fault, you miserable son of a bitch! Aaaaaaaaaargh!

What finally follows amidst more colourful screaming and mayhem, is a bloody mess and slime and through it all emerges the small human. And in time-honoured tradition the poor small innocent human is given a hearty smack. Yep, welcome to life on Earth, pal. There's more of that to come.

Really, it's no small wonder given the savagery of human birth that humans turn out the way they do... Shame on you.

Ba-kaaaak!

2007-03-16T17:41:00.000+02:00

Observing humanity

(A double posting today to keep you occupied all weekend and beyond...)

Human Activity...

Human creativity...

An Alien's view...

Human insanity - Spike's take on "Is there life on Earth?"...

And now, while you ponder all that and chat amongst yourselves, I'm outta here - going undercover for a few days, posting may be sporadic. But I'll be back! So no throwing parties on this blog in my absence - or I'll set Granny on you! Be warned!

Ba-kaaaak!

PS If my comments on your blog have been scarce - blame blogger which has been beastly beyond belief! (It hasn't been for want of trying, trust me.)

2007-03-16T17:40:00.000+02:00

Aha - so human beauty is not all it's cracked up to be

A picture speaks a thousand words...

Do you really want to believe everything you see and read?

2007-03-13T17:20:00.000+02:00

Ooh - my own portrait

Matthew, over at Turbo Art, is doing some cool stuff on request. I asked him if he'd be kind enough to do a portrait of A. Hen and here it is.

And here it is too:

Must say it does make me look a lot more kindly and domesticated than I really am. Perhaps Matthew hasn't yet discovered that I'm a Chicken with Attitude!

Thanks Matthew!

By the way, do you do werechickens? Granny wants to know if you'd be willing to do her portrait too.

ADDENDUM:

Matthew was kind enough to do a very fine and splendid portrait of Granny Were too!

Granny is totally delighted at her picture - and says she hopes that you will now know exactly what you might face at full moon!

2007-03-14T12:20:00.000+02:00

The twin natures of tree saving

I've long thought that the best way of winning an argument is to stick to the facts and to proceed in a cogent manner. You might not bring your opponent around to your way of thinking, but at least you will have left him with some questions to ponder and no one will be able to call you a raving lunatic.

On Earth, however, it seems that there are alternative methods for trying to win an argument, and I have to say I've not yet seen any merit in them. With reference to the tree saving thing, which I am not involved in... I said not... Did you all hear that? Good. Well with reference to all things trees (which, I repeat, I am not involved in), watching the various protagonists in the tree felling debate is like watching two people on see saw - it's either up or it's down, but there's never anyone in the middle.

One the one extreme there's this fellow, we'll call him Treebeard. He's a nice chap, really he is. Heart of gold. Caring. Passionate. But has a brain like a deformed cabbage. No concept of strategy. No other means of expression other than psychotic burblings. No concept of fact - but an imagination that's been fertilized by Zola's Mother Caca herself. He's given to pouring out his heart to anyone who'll listen - including those who really don't want to listen. He waxes lyrical, poetic, rantific, pontific. He raves on to such an extent that I'm convinced he must a) suffer from ADHD, b) constantly forget to take his medication and, c) overdose on caffeine.

He's prone to such inarticulate and rambling outbursts that he reminds me of a deranged pekingese who succeeds in numbing the very ones he wants to have on-side. But the worst of it is, the Draconian overlords just laugh at him, publicly humiliate him and refer to his words as the rantings of a demented tree hugger.

Now personally, I've nothing against hugging trees (some of my best friends are trees) and, frankly, I'd sooner hug a tree than a human. But this term "tree hugger" really does seem to have some unhappy connotations attached to it and resultantly, Treebeard instead of aiding the cause, is causing no end of trouble for those intent on protecting the forests. The worst thing is no matter what you say to him, he just keeps on gushing like an geyser with its bum on fire. You try to point out to him that doesn't have his facts straight, and he becomes more prickly than a cactus in the mating season. You point out that his argument is illogical and irrational and he becomes as a deaf as a waterlogged couch.

I suppose what one can say is this - at least he makes the more sane forest protectors look reasonable and rational.

On the other extreme of the tree saving lark is the evil Idiot Bluster Von Hot Aire. The Idiot is an astigmatic botanist - one those myopic academic sorts whose eyes squint and bulge if he has to see further than the end of his spotty nose. He obsesses with the particular and forgets the general entirely - he's the sort to be consumed by the sight of single blackhead rather than accepting that he's covered in pustular acne. Frankly, I've seen moles with more vision and perspective than him.

I'm also inclined to think that Von Hot Aire would have got along just marvelously with last century's most xenophobic historic figure - you know, the one with the funny march, the ridiculous moustache and that damned odd salute.
The Idiot, you see, perceives the trees to be aliens which must be decapitated and felled in one, well, fell swoop - they are not, you see, part of the divinely chosen floral race. The environment must, he demands, be ethnically cleansed.

The Idiot Bluster Von Hot Aire hankers, slavvering at his gnashing jaws, for international research funding and will stop at nothing to achieve his ends - a patch of biodiversity on his doorstep so he doesn't have to travel more than ten minutes from home to fulfill his rather peculiar ambitions. You see, the Idiot Bluster considers himself something of a magician. Nay, not just a magician but something of an alchemist - except he doesn't plan to turn base metal to gold - no he plans to raise the extinct. He warbles, like a demented budgie on magic mushrooms, about resuscitating those species which have long since snuffed it. Now hang on one moment here - how do you resuscitate something that curled up its toes hundreds of years ago? It's like telling the Mauritians you'll bring back their dodo.

The Idiot Bluster Von Hot Aire is deaf, blind and primarily dumb to the needs of local people. Sod people, he says, plants are more important. Stuff fauna, he says, they're not important. Animals, he says, may lose their habitat and die but this is of no consequence. The individual, he proclaims, is irrelevant in nature. I feel obliged to point out to him exactly how irrelevant he is! But pehaps Granny will do it for me instead...

What, I wonder, will the Idiot do when the proletarian masses rise up, bay for his blood and screech over the shriek of chainsaws "Stop cutting down our trees!." Will he shout, in the manner of the logger on Easter Island, "Bugger climate change, screw shaded recreational areas, we need more scrub, cut down that last pine tree! Now!"

The Idiot is happy to see the decimation of special places, creatures and things, so long as his own self-interested aims are met. And for those who oppose him, the Idiot unleashes a special kind of vitriol. Just like his arch enemy Treebeard, the Idiot resorts to illogical argument. No, it's not even argument, it's just a lot of name calling and character assassination. "Selfish" and "myopic" are amongst his favourite words. Hmm... hello Kettle, 'tis Pot calling...

It is my personal view that Treebeard and the Idiot should be locked in a room together and the keys should be thrown into the moat.

Oh would that humans could find some balance. But I've already said that this week, haven't I...

Ba-kaaaak!

2007-03-12T15:56:00.000+02:00

Corporate Ladies - no gentlemen allowed

I encountered an intriguing sort of homo sapiens F this past week. The corporate woman. A scary beast she is indeed. Dressed in her power suit, with shoulders that would do your average jock proud, the Corporate Woman wears stiletto heels as weapons. She's as poised as a cobra ready to strike and has a gaze that could turn you to ice. She hair is carefully coiffed and held in place by will power. Her lips are blood red, or it may just be that they're covered in blood. She's an Amazon in a man's world and her trophy case holds gold-plated balls. She might have children but she seldom has a husband - the poor dolt usually runs off when he discovers she's much smarter than him. Besides, he's willy turns to water when he sees her pay cheque is double his. It does his ego no good and his self esteem deflates like a punctured balloon that squeals and whizzes around the room. And then he's outta there.

To get a date the Corporate Woman must pay exorbitant amounts to exclusive dating agencies to find her a suitable partner. But while the men who sign up in the same books say they want a smart, intelligent and feisty woman, what they really want is a competition - one which they are intent on winning. Alternatively they're really looking for a woman they believe they can subdue (in the same way that blondes eye up priests and gay men). So foolish. When Corporate Woman wins, as she inevitably does, homo sapiens M runs away, fearful that he might otherwise end up the ham on her sandwich or the eunuch running her home.

The Corporate Woman, it strikes me, has taken intense lessons from Madame Black Widow and Ms Piranha. She also appears to do regular deals with the Devil.

While the Corporate Woman still waxes her underarms and legs (she's into a bit of S&M), she's not known for her rampant femininity. She relates best to the goddesses Athena or Artemis. She's certainly no pouting Aphrodite (though may play the role to get her own way), buxom Demeter or cowering Persephone. She is dressed solely in Armani, Prada, Donna Karan or Calvin Klein - these designers knows she means business. Her look is calculated to be sharp, tailored and severe. She has no truck with frills and flounces and rabid florals a la Versace. On her "hot" nights she may, however, wear a Gaultier bustier to bed...

The Corporate Woman brooks no shit. She eats ad agency directors for breakfast, IT directors for lunch and for supper, she's likely to dine on Financial Directors. She has no truck with Ladies Who Lunch - she considers them oxygen thieves. She has no time for stay at home mums - she believes they sold their intellect for nappies. Oh yes, Corporate Woman is tough and she's smart.

But what I want to know is this: what happened to her soul? Did it get sold when she slept with the the former CEO so she could snaffle his title? Did it fly the coop when she thrust her wailing newborn into the arms of the nanny and declared, "I've a company to run."? Did it curl up and die when she told the man she once loved, "I'm grown up now, I don't need you or love."? One does have to wonder.

The Corporate Woman I met last week had just received a call to say her daughter had been in a car accident.

"I'm in a meeting," said Corporate Woman, "Tell her I'll call her later - and if it's possible to reschedule my four o'clock tell her I'll try to get home as soon as I can. Meanwhile, Daisy, see if you can trace that waster of a father of hers and tell him to do some parenting. I'm busy."

One of the many things that leaves me puzzling is this: What values do the Corporate Woman's children grow up with? Mum's too busy to bother with potty training. Dad has fled the nest. When they ask Mum why she can't, like Jenny's mum, be at home when they come back from school, the Corporate Woman replies, "But you like to go shopping in the mall on Saturdays, don't you? If I didn't work, you couldn't. Now what do you prefer?" The children, torn between materialism and love say, "Gosh, Mum, the mall!" believing that in providing Mum with the answer she wants, they'll receive some of her love and time.

While on one wing I'm admiring of the Corporate Woman's achievements - she'd do well in the Draconian UberArmy as a warlord, on the other wing, I am obliged to wonder, yet again, what happened to balance.

What is it with humans? It's all or nothing with you lot, isn't it? Is the Corporate Woman an over-achiever because she follows a need to pacify her insatiable ego? Or does she feel she's making a real difference - as head of a multinational that fells twenty thousand trees year to make paper? Or did some little boy steal her doll when she was all of six - and she's vowed vengeance ever since - a woman determined to change the nature of a man's world? Pity then, that she should become so much like the very men she despises.

I'm not sure I care too much for Corporate Women though the women I really admire are those Corporate Dragons who wake up and smell the roses. The ones who realise that there is more to life than chasing the next dollar, that their children are more important than the next deal, that love goes further than a pair of Gucci loafers. They're the women who find balance, who once their kids no longer need them, can take their multitude of skills and their supreme EQ and create whole new worlds for themselves - worlds where they call they shots - and without wearing suits and stillettos that can perform frontal lobotomies.

Ba-kaaaak!

2007-03-10T18:36:00.000+02:00

You can't buy class in a mall

What can I say, malls provide this Chicken with magnificent opportunities for people watching. And so it was today...

Chicken Man having expressed overwhelming hunger pangs in the midst of a shopping foray - ghastly experience, I tell you - dragged me clucking and protesting to a restaurant in the mall. Given it was lunch time, the place was jam packed but loathe to lose any custom - his overheads were clearly fearsome - the manager miraculously discovered one spare table.

Sitting diagonally behind me was "bimbo babe" and "bimbo babe mark 2". The first babe, who from here on in will be known at Trophy Wife or TW, was admiring the size of the diamond in her ring. Not only that, she was weighing it up against the size of another diamond - in Babe Two's ring. She held the rings up to the light, twirled them around and put both on her finger. One, unsurprisingly, got stuck. She wrenched it off and sent her knife and fork clanging to the ground. She compared the two again and then tried to weigh them up, trying to assess which one lay heavier in her hands - as though she were comparing two succulent melons. But here's what I don't get, while both were sizeable rocks, one was not a diamond. On a good day it might have been a cubic zirconia. Satisfied that hers was the real thing and weightier and shinier, TW handed the second ring back to Babe Two.

At this point I decided instead of giving myself a crick in the neck, I'd just move to the other side of the table so I'd have an uninterrupted view of the lunchtime entertainment.

Here's a brief description of our two babes. TW had long auburn hair. She wore a clingy green dress, which revealed her podgy tummy, her love handles and her droopy boobies. Her glasses carried on one large black arm the name Dolce. I don't know what it said on the other arm, I couldn't see. It might have said Gabbana or it might have said Vita. I'm guessing she wished it was the former. She wore on her feet, clunky wooden platform wedges which did nothing to reduce the size of her thick ankles. I don't know about Earth, but on Novapulse slender ankles are a sign of good breeding. Anything else we prefer not to discuss.

Babe Two was doing a Paris/Britney/Shakira/Jessica imitation. Drifts of blonde hair flopped over too made up skin and pouty lips. She too wore a clingy little t-shirt dress in green and flat soled black boots - by the way, it is only the height of summer. She might have been 12 or she might have been 18 - it was hard to tell.

As I sat observing these two damsels, a third human joined them. Homo sapiens male. Father of Babe Two, husband of Trophy Wife. The fact that BT and TW could have been sisters didn't escape my notice. Besides, Not-Stud Muffin looked like he was of an age to have recently suffered a mid-life crisis, which had made him dump the mother of his child and run off with his receptionist. I suppose, in all honesty, calling TW the Trophy Wife is a bit misleading and far too generous, because I could see nothing prize-winning about this chickadee. And by the time her food arrived, it was apparent that not only did she have no breeding, no taste, no style but she also had zero table etiquette.

TW had ordered fajitas with steak, guacomole and refried beans (oops!). She'd gather up a chunk of everything, unhinge her jaw and shovel it in. And I know, you're wondering if she ate with her mouth open or closed. Well, go on, guess. Yep, right, open. Every now and then she'd lean over and grab one of husband's french fries. Incapable of nibbling at it delicately she'd shove the entire fry, fingers and half her fist down her gob. Very unattractive. As for husband, he kept missing his burger as he was so busy staring proprietorily down TW's cleavage - a cleavage, I must add that was neither spectacular nor pert.

But here's the thing see. I've detected this unfortunate condition on planet Earth. It's called Noveau Riche. The petit bourgeois operators rise up through wheeling and dealing, they know men who know men, they're not averse to things which fell off the back of a lorry and they like to involve themselves in property development. They're not particularly bright, but like sewer rats they're cunning and street smart. They try to outdo one another by having the youngest wife (with the biggest diamond), the biggest gas guzzling SUV and a mulitimillion dollar mansion on the coast or on Nob Hill. They have a special "car wash" where they take their SUVs at the end of a weekend to be sprayed with mud - so it looks like they spent the weekend out in the bush on safari. They have a wardrobe full of designer labels (the names of which they are incapable of pronouncing) but they have no capacity for stylish dressing. Resulantly it always looks like their clothes are wearing them - or that they had grandma's help in dressing. Their desire to impress all and sundry and be accepted by "old" money is insatiable. The reality is they wouldn't know class if it came up from behind and pecked them on the bum. And this embarrasses them - I know this because when husband noticed that I was beadily eyeing his coop, he tried to outstare me - but I have to tell you, it is hard to outstare a haughty chicken. All the poor dolt managed in the end was to look well-pissed off.

But I'll say this, it made for good lunch time amusement, afforded Chicken Man and I (and a few others besides) a good few chortles and, of course it provided yet more observations for High Command to ponder. I would just like to, once again, point out to humanity... for the Corncob's sake, get over yourselves and your sodding egos!

Ba-kaaaaak!

2007-03-09T11:37:00.000+02:00

At last - human I can relate to... Albert Einstein

"Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity...and I'm not sure about the universe."

"He who joyfully marches in rank and file has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would suffice."

"Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is; I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder."

"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one."

"Few people are capable of expressing with equanimity opinions which differ from the prejudices of their social environment. Most people are even incapable of forming such opinions."

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed."

"Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius -- and a lot of courage -- to move in the opposite direction."

"Weakness of attitude becomes weakness of character."

"Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new."

"A man's ethical behavior should be based effectually on sympathy, education, and social ties; no religious basis is necessary. Man would indeeded be in a poor way if he had to be restrained by fear of punishment and hope of reward after death."

"Great spirits have often encountered violent opposition from weak minds."

"The release of atom power has changed everything except our way of thinking...the solution to this problem lies in the heart of mankind. If only I had known, I should have become a watchmaker."

"The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education."

"Great spirits have always found violent opposition from mediocrities. The latter cannot understand it when a man does not thoughtlessly submit to hereditary prejudices but honestly and courageously uses his intelligence."

"Imagination is more important than knowledge."

"We can't solve problems by using the same kind of thinking we used when we created them."

"Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods."

"Peace cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding."

"I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones."

"Heroism on command, senseless violence, and all the loathsome nonsense that goes by the name of patriotism -- how passionately I hate them!"

"The fear of death is the most unjustified of all fears, for there's no risk of accident for someone who's dead."

"Common sense is the collection of prejudices acquired by age eighteen."

"A human being is a part of a whole, called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest... a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty."

click image to enlarge

2007-03-07T18:51:00.000+02:00

Evil Chicken in war dress

Julia Buckley's Deep Down Dirty Meme
My blogging pal Julia who can't make up her mind if she's a cartoon blonde or a cute blonde, was having a busy day. Instead of getting on with it, she decided to create her very own meme. And then she tagged me.
So here it is and I accordingly tag Minx, Saaleha, Debi, Anna, Susan, Mad Baggage and Ms Melancholy. Oh go on, you know you want to, besides, I dare you...

The Deep Down Dirty Meme

1. Biggest fear: Ending up in a Draconian Uber-Lizard Sandwich

2. Most meglomanical ambition: To take control of the Earth and do a better job of running it than humans!

3. When you’re talking to your boss, you’re usually thinking about: Weight loss programmes

4. Most disgusting habit: Farting the Novapulsian National Anthem - just don't tell anyone I do that, okay.

5. Criteria for judging other people: Integrity, credibility, life energy, sense of humour

6. How do you measure up?: Better than most (What? Did you really think I was going to say any differently?)

7. What do you think when you see a fat person eating fast food?: 1. Glutton, I hope you burst! 2.Oh Corncob, I hope it's not chicken!

8. How about when you see thin person smoking?: You're gonna die, sucker.

9. When you meet someone of the same gender who’s more attractive than you, inside you think: What a beautiful person.

10. When you meet someone of the opposite gender who’s less attractive than you, inside you think: Now let's get beyond the cover and find the real person, other than the one mummy loves.

11. The last lie you told was: See all the above

12. Tell us about the time you read someone’s diary/hacked into their emails/went through their stuff: The trouble with doing stuff like that is you always learn something you really wish you hadn't. So I don't. Excuse me while I polish my halo.

13. You know that person who you’re secretly jealous of - and there’s a part of you, that you can’t quite suppress, that wishes they would, just for once, get to taste a bit of your luck? Tell us what you hate about them – go on let it all out: Nope, sorry, not jealous of anyone. Boring, but hey, what can I say, green just does so not suit me.

14. The most expensive thing you’ve ever stolen was: I'm still planning on how to steal it.

15. Even though all this is true, you’re still a really good person because… I'm not human, so I'm just a really good chicken and I'm a really good chicken 'cos I'm not human.

2007-03-06T19:37:00.000+02:00

Artist - Tim Sharpe

Chickens of War

And now I'm really mad! It was bad enough discovering that human warmongers are using pigeons, rats, sharks, sea lions, dogs, dolphins, honey bees and bugs to aid their military endeavours, but now I discover that they're using my Earth cousins as early warning systems. This is beyond preposterous!

The idea is that the Chickens (the Corncob bless their feathered souls) sit in cages (Aaaaargh! Cages!) atop humvees out in some Middle Eastern desert and check if there's anything nasty in the air - by way of chemical or biological weaponry. When the Chickens keel over, their poor legs in the light, the Marines know it's time to don protective gear. No bother that the Chickens have gone claws up, just so long as the humans are okay. Like the Chickens don't count and the humans do! BA-KAAAAAK! Besides, these Chickens, like any other animal, never asked to become embroiled in the US's war against Iraq. They didn't sign up and squawk, "Oooh me, take me, I want to peck Saddam's eyes out." No they were involuntarily conscripted. Sent to their deaths without so much as a by your leave or a do you mind.

It's cold comfort that the Army won't be following the same approach - though not for any really good reason. To quote Army Brig. Gen. Stephen Reeves: "Small animals require about 10 times the exposure humans do to be affected, so by the time the already-nervous fowl cry foul, it is too late. Besides, their feathers act as a protective barrier against some agents that could harm humans."

If that's not bad enough, I also unearthed this - the British plan for a nuclear landmine, powered by Chickens!
Because there was a risk of the bomb failing in winter, it was decided to fill the casing of the nuke with live Chickens, who would give off sufficient heat, prior to suffocating or starving to death, to keep the delicate explosive mechanism from freezing. I wonder if anyone bothered to so much as raise this with Chickendom. I imagine not.

What, I have to ask you, does humanity have against Chickens and other animals? Huh? If it's not bad enough that you eat and abuse them, you also need to involve them in your own egotistical dances of power and greed. Really, you are a sickening species. Frankly, I'm beginning to long for the day that the Grays arrive en masse to suck out your brains - as has already happened to some...

But this abuse of Chickens is more than I can tolerate. I'm going to have to alert Agent Double Cluck and involve Granny Were to tackle fiendish humans.
And I'm also going to get some more Chickens to roost on the roof of the White House gable, because it is surely time...

And then, lest any human ever forgets, I'm going to call in Cows with Guns and their friends, the chickens in choppers! Some of you have seen them before, but let me just keep reminding you. Chickenkind will not tolerate this constant abuse!

Don't say I didn't warn you!
BA-KAAAAAAK!

Addendum - from Granny: She says please watch the video below. If you don't stop mucking about with Chickens, this is what will happen.

2007-03-04T12:02:00.000+02:00

Remote controlled flying pigeons - and more...

Have you ever thought about the way a pigeon, or any other bird for that matter, flies? You know, flap wings, take off, flap some more, glide, bank, soar... that kind of thing. Has it ever struck you that these feathered flyers have absolutely no idea what they're doing or where they're going and perhaps need help? No? No, I didn't think so. They seem to do just fine all by themselves, don't they? Avian aviation seems well sorted as far as I can see - and in no need of any external assistance to go left, right, up or down. And birds seem quite content with their lot. Unlike humans they don't appear to have a need to tamper with their mechanics or have their mechanics tampered with.

But tell that to some humans - particularly those with a bout of a paranoia and a Machiavellian bent for world domination

Humans, it strikes me, are incapable of leaving well enough alone. Resultantly, scientists in China have succeeded in an experiment to remotely control the flight of a pigeon with electronic technology.

I mean, really! And, what for? Where does human interference in all things natural stop? Why is it necessary to implant electrodes into the brains of some poor innocent pigeons, who mind their business by pecking at seed, shagging, preening, laying eggs, raising their young and shitting all over statues. Why, I have to ask, would anyone conceivably want to be able to direct a pigeon to go left or right? I mean what's the bloody point?

Of course, not to be outdone, scientists in the US have been conducting similar experiments - their aim - military advantage. (Why am I so not surprised.) Yep, not content with just blowing their foes to bits, this lot want to drag animals into their nefarious activities. To this end, the Pentagon have been trying to create remotely controlled shark spies. Flipper the Dolphin was evidently too sappy an experiment for these gung ho fellows. Jaws was a far more attractive option. See, the dream is that Jaws & Co will become stealth spies. I wonder if anyone mentioned to these geniuses that sharks, particularly Great Whites, are quite partial to human flesh?

"The Pentagon hopes to exploit sharks' natural ability to glide quietly through the water, sense delicate electrical gradients and follow chemical trails," says a report, carried in New Scientist.

I don't know why but the phrase biting the hand that feeds you keeps coming to mind...

You'd have thought, of course, that these lunatics would have learned from their previous failed attempt at using animals for military purposes - when they tried to use cats in spy missions.
Having spent millions of dollars on research, the "acoustic kitty" - with battery and microphone on board and an antenna in it's tail - pranced out into the road and was promptly squashed by a passing taxi. Sod's law, some might say. But I'd have to disagree. Mother Nature looks after her own.

Now, while humanity fiddles some more with the animal kingdom for their own heinous purposes, I think I'll just settle back to watch it all go horribly wrong.

Ba-kaaaaaak!

2007-03-02T17:49:00.000+02:00

Narcissus reigns in his mirrored pond

More reasons to despair of humanity - like I need more reasons.

This report, recently out, shows that American college students get an A in narcissism and self-centeredness. Why am I so not surprised?

Well, for one, I'm not surprised, because any nation that brings it's kids up singing - to the tune of Frere Jacques -

I am special, I am special, look at me and you’ll see
Someone very special, very, very special,
That is me. YES IT'S ME!!

(Found in a pdf file called "All about me!" Me Me Me Me Me Me!!!!! I should add, in said pdf file, kids are encouraged to gaze at themselves in a mirror and determine what is so special about them... Here's hoping the clock doesn't strike and they remain frozen forever. Then again, here's hoping the clock does strike and...)

I mean, really, is this necessary? What's so important about Me? What indeed is so very, very special about Me - who is, undoubtedly some snot-nosed, overweight small person clamouring for more pocket money, more hamburgers, more sweets, more TV time, another pair of Nike trainers and a new Playstation.

Secondly, I'm not surprised about this because these kids do after all come from a nation which thinks self confidence is more important that world peace and fighting poverty, that it is the next best thing since frozen OJ and pork rinds, has a penchant for celebritydom which beggars belief and, which has the greatest propensity for destroying the environment and assuming total control. (Of course it wasn't about weapons of mass destruction, we know it was all about snaffling the other guy's oil.) In short, it's a nation with far too many people (note: I did not say ALL!) who swagger around saying, "I am great, I am great, I'm so very, very great". And then they wonder why so many other people have issues with them... Particularly those people who do their worshipping on Fridays. You know, I can just see this lot gazing lovingly at their mugs in the mirror and asking, "Mirror Mirror on the wall, who is the most wonderful of them all?" Of course, the mirror says "You! You're special!" because if it doesn't the mirror runs the risk of being sued or being sent to Guantanamo Bay.

Why can't humans get beyond this need to be special? Didn't they get enough love as children? (Well, hmm, possibly not if mom and dad plonked them in front of the tv and forgot them there.)
Look, let's face it, it's not as if humanity doesn't already suffer from an excess of ego - as Granny, Aunt Aggie and I have repeatedly pointed out. But no, it seems that for some members of the human race, the ego levels are not high enough. They must go higher still. I wonder, do humans remember what happened to old Narcissus - who was so entranced gazing at his own beautiful reflection that he wasted away and popped his clogs (or were they espadrilles...?)? No, of course they don't remember - humanity, we've learned, is terribly slow to learn from history.

The researchers of the report pointed out the less parental indulgence might be a way forward - but that assumes that the parents indeed know how to spell "indulgence" and "more authoritative parenting". This when, after all, many parents find it just so much easier to pander to the kids than actually deal with them. Much easier to plonk Billy in front of the TV and let him stay there, rather than teach him some basic values - back to my point, eh? No real love, just TV love. Of course, as someone said, "Well, I am special is better than I'm just hopeless, I am worthless." But do humans really have to leap from one extreme to the other? What happened to B-A-L-A-N-C-E?

Needless to say, opponents of the report hotly deny the claims made. I have to wonder, do they protest too much...?

Really people, if there is to be any hope for this planet you call home, you are going to have to get past your ego, really transcend it.

And now for my own version of the ego song, again to the tune of Frere Jacques :

I'm a plonker, I'm a plonker with a big head,
A very big head.
All I am is ego, lots and lots of ego.
I'm so cool, such a fool.

Now it's your turn - go on, give it a go, I dare you...

Alternately, you might like to try working with the tune of Alouette (feel free to try the karoake or traditional song version - whatever gets you more in the mood...)

I'm an egotist, just a silly egotist
I'm a fathead, that's really all I am
REPEAT
All I am is vanity - all I am is arrogance
I'm such a twit - such a twit
A raving bloody egotist
Aa-aa-aa-ah Eeee-go-ti-ist

2007-02-27T10:34:00.000+02:00

A Blatant Bit of Promotion - All Words...

Words, words, words. Stories everywhere. Some that rhyme, some are true and some are just pure fantasy.

That wise and intriguing human, the homosapiens Welsh called Skint, is hosting a writing competition here.

For all those budding writers, journalists and poets amongst you - do go and take a look. You might even consider entering WORDS
WORDS
WORDS
of your own...

...and telling your unique STORY
STORY
STORY

You might have FUN
FUN
FUN

Go on... you know you want to... Intrigue.... reveal... Play... refine... Romp... undulate... reverberate... Giggle... sparkle... communicate... Harmonise... create... encounter... Meander

Well, a friend of mine who is known to hang about the Henhouse did - you can take a look at her non-fiction here and her fiction here.

The Henhouse's Wall of Words...