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Home: The Toast

I will confess here simply that I have never cared for the Chicken Lady sketches. They leave me cold.

It is not that Mark McKinney insufficiently commits to the role. He does not; he pours his body and soul entire into it. The way he scuttles over and shuffles backwards out of the kitchen with the plate of grubs and omelettes? That is, I believe, as close an approximation of how a true half-chicken, half-woman would do so. The twitching and head-bobbing, too, are astonishingly dead-on. Her bold and unashamed willingness to chase men for sex is funny and heartening both at once – I should love her for her committed and unique comic choices, or at least for her celebration of female agency.

But guys, Chicken Lady has always creeped me out. She gives me the fucking willies. I’m willing to accept that the fault lies with me. I want to accept it. Better my fault than Mark McKinney’s. But when Dave Foley runs screaming through the front door, I’m right behind him.

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