das ich im ich und Hühne

After watching “The Witch” (I’m not through with you, film!) I needed something light. Today’s spergery is sponsored by … (drumroll, bittedank) chickens!

Before we begin my Freudian slip into madness and quirk, hear this song by a German band I liked in high school. I’ll link it below too.

Chickens enjoy an inexplicable place in the post-modern Anglophonic psyche. I think the underexplored culmination of this is a Vidya game made ancient by today’s standard. The game is Fable. But it isn’t alone. There was The Legend of Zelda and Final Fantasy which were Japanese imports having Easter Eggs poking fun at the White Man’s affinity for the venerable bird.

Fable was a bittersweet franchise which simultaneously attempted to make an electronic record of celebrating British tropes, that simultaneously showed the decay of creative enterprise with subsequent quotas of multicultural garbage.

Sometimes life is a kick in the cock.

At any rate. The franchise opens with the nameless hero who serves as an archetype of British heroism. Ideally. His first handle is Chicken Chaser, because chickens. The chicken becomes an inside joke. By the third title, there is a quest in which one must decide to arbiter between a couple torn asunder by… Chickens.

A woman has begun a Chicken’s Suffrage movement, and like the future PETA members begun abducting local fowl for her home for abused chicks. The husband is convinced that after months of having chickens crow in his ear, that the birds are plotting to kill him. Typical of videogames there is good, evil and third position choices. Third position leads to: chicken races, in which British yokels can bet on their favourite birds. Otherwise you must choose between genociding chicken race or aiding and abetting in the charming eccentricity turned obsessive madness of an English woman with too much time to kill.

Why am I talking rot about chickens?

Well, I’ll get to it. My wife is having a ‘British kick.’ Which led to us watching a show called “Doc Martin.” Here is a Cornish village full of dubious eccentrics. In Portwenn, the true eccentrics are those we’d deem normal and perhaps don’t belong- like Al Large. Otherwise the village is peopled with Britons going to various degrees of madness.

The Rubicon moment was: I could see archetypes of my family displayed in the various shows of Yokeldom. I also realised some other things that may or may not actually be funny. You had people obsessed with birds. In the early show was the ubiquitous chicken and the subconscious reminder that the Jew fears the chicken farmer.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s how I can retcon this. The answer to 1653 is not 1776 or 9/11 – it’s Bantams. Fuck you, ZOG, right in the broodies.

Stop!

Hammer time.

Before I went into the trades, I helped raise chickens as a kid. It all seemed quaint and innocent. Isn’t that the point of chickens now? A kind of Jungian archetype for modern Whites to RETVRN to our shared Anglophonic roots as a nation of displaced peasants? That’s what early New England was. It was not too terribly unlike Portwenn, in reverse. Quaint. Wholesome. Clucky.

But you don’t get the village of questionable eccentrics by stopping at quaint.

No!

You go big or you go home. And I’m already home, so there’s nowhere left for me to go but big, bigger, biggest. Oh my.

Anyway. By way of a thousand papercuts defying explanation, my mother has… evolved into a displaced Portwenn villager wandering around having conversations with her chickens. Raising chickens… In her house. And otherwise having “house-chickens.” Ergo I realised, the dark side of the Anglo isn’t just Injun killing and Irish in-place-putting. It’s chickens.

The seed of the charmingly eccentric Anglo is in all of us. And of course, the unsettlingly disjointed conclusion of that eccentricity could never happen to me. Because I’m Dour AF. Right? Nothing eccentric about me. But it’s haunting. One day, my sense of propriety could evade me and the shell I’ve become may find it perfectly tolerable that a brood of chickens should live in the house. Or that having ten roosters to twenty hens can end another way than 13/50. It could happen that quirky charm be outweighed by crippling madness. Which way, Western man??? Where is my Third Position?

D’aw. It’s not like the funniest patch I’ve ever unsettled folks with is the following:

rock_out_cock_out.plzstahp

DOO EEET NAU!

Nope. Just the eternal RETVRN to normalcy. Doing things like Runes, the Occult, politics that normalfags think is Eldritch because they’re unenlightened stooges, stacking rocks and making small henges. Routine stuff. Nothing to see. I’ll never wake up and be told I’ve gone mad someday. I will maintain my dignity while, somewhere, there’s some benighted Anglo trying to train roosters to do things other than rape. (Which I have done. To hilarious effect. Ask me about my “trailer park eyeball” story. Go on. Can you really say no, now? Course you can.)

Why aren’t YOU doing these things? Nutter.

This poll paid for in part by The Nagging Hen Committee to support Big Cock Inc. Authorised in Douay by King James, as candidate for the Republican Party of 2023 because why not, nothing else makes sense.

America is saved!

Press R to reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeëēé.

7 thoughts on “das ich im ich und Hühne

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