Happy New Year everyone! Today is January 1st but my calendar still says December because my sister who is a lawyer didn’t take the time to make Tobey calendars for all of us this year. What a bitch, right? I guess she put work ahead of crafts or something. Fuck that noise, I say. I’m starting the year on a positive note and I can’t be brought down by these kind of maneuvers designed specifically to ruin my chances at happiness because that’s exactly what it is. Oh, you might think it was just a lack of time or lack of planning but no, I think she deliberately set out to make ME have a bad 2010 by purposefully not making ME a Tobey calendar. God, I have have a mind to never speak to her again. That’s how positive my attitude is starting January 1. I mean, I think it’s January 1 but I can’t be sure because, well, the calendar thing.

But anyway, it’s come to my attention that not all of you have resolutions and a man or woman without a new year’s resolution is like a dog without a 2010 calendar. Did I mention that I’m staring at December?

So if you don’t have a resolution, and really, why would you because you only had a year to think of one, here are some good general ones.

a) Keep on keeping on

b) Do it!

c) Just put it out there

d) Say Yes to the universe

e) Say Maybe to the universe

f) Say no to carbs

g) Say please and thank you

h) Charge money for sex

i) Put a portion of the proceeds you are charging for sex into an I.R.A. account

j) Sing

k) Sing a song

l) Dance as if no one’s watching

m) Hide in a tree and watch someone dance

n) I can see you; you’re doing it all wrong

o) Hips! Throw your hips into it!

p) There is a bird giving me the evil eye

q) Not to be confused with the eagle eye, which you could be forgiven for thinking, given these circumstances

r) The circumstances, for those who’ve lost track, are that I am in a tree which happens to have wifi and I’m watching you dance like no one’s looking, which is ironic since I’m right here, and also there is a bird staring me down

s) I’m going to be kind to him, for he may be somebody’s mother

t) lose that baby weight!

u) men, I’m talking to you!

v) quit drinking

w) jello shots don’t count because they’re gross

x) get a move on

y) get on the good foot

z) take it all off!

Ho, ho! Get it? Get my clever headline? It’s not that clever. Anyway.

Why is it that these taste better than eggs I make myself?  Is it because they’re “hard cooked,” which sounds elegant and mysterious and kind of British as opposed to hard boiled which just sounds mundane? Is it because, if this bag of hard cooked eggs could speak it would say, “Hey asshole, you can make me at home for a fraction of the cost. That is, if you can bear the struggle of turning on a stove and peeling some shells. Now put me back in the boot of your car, mate.” Maybe.

But see, they have a rubbery texture that I actually like that I can’t achieve when I boil eggs at home. Plus boiling eggs on a stove leads to a farty smelling kitchen versus limiting the fart smell to a bag. They should really include that in their advertising.

A wise chicken doesn’t cackle until she lays an egg or something, but that’s not my style and plus if I were a chicken I’d much rather be the kind that plays piano. Probably something light, like Debussy. I know what you’re thinking: Do I take tips? Yes I do. I refer you to the tip jar on the side of my baby grand. They wanted to get me a concert grand since I’m performing at a pretty big concert hall however I explained that I wasn’t the biggest chicken (I actually said I wasn’t the biggest “cock on the walk” and we all had a good laugh at that) and therefore a concert grand would be using a hatchet to remove a fly from my friend’s beak.

I mean, I want the main thing you notice on that stage to be me and my amazing plumage first, then my romantic (and I mean that in the Platonic sense of the word) and moving playing, and then the light show and then you are free to notice the piano. And the tip jar. Please notice that. But I mean, I don’t want to be upstaged by my instrument.

But back to the tip jar. If you aren’t able to ascend the steps at Carnegie Hall (yes, that’s where I’m performing the works of Debussy) then we’re sending a collection plate out into the crowd.

What’s that? There aren’t any steps? I simply flap my wings and fly over the orchestra pit to get to the stage but I don’t really know how it would work for you. And I know what you’re thinking again: You’re wondering why I’m flying over the orchestra pit instead of entering the stage from backstage where I’ll be nibbling on various vittles kept warm on chafing dishes, as per my contract rider? Look, I’m a pretty down the earth chicken and I find that when I take the stage from the audience it really starts things off on the right foot. It’s my way of saying that I don’t OWN the music. I’m merely a vessel through which it speaks/lives/breathes.

Am I getting too lofty? I do that sometimes. In the coop where I periodically pass the time I’m kind of known as an intellectual. Some think I’m snobby but I’m really not. I just want to know what came before me, and what came after me, and how I fit in.

I read a lot of Nietzsche. I went through an Orwell phase but it hit a little close to home, as you can probably imagine.

1984. It was the year of my birth. Why, what did you think I was referring to?

Anyway, I have to go practice on my Casio keyboard which I keep in my mobile dressing room. A lot of people wonder how I practice and that’s how.

Oh and P.S. it looks as if I’ll be interviewing a certain Michael Showalter in a video/vlog soon. Happy Valentine’s Day!

NOTE: If you want to hear the old radio interviews I did with Michael Showalter and Michael Ian Black go to my seldom-updated Myspace page and scroll down on the right side, after the videos, and there is a gray box with the interviews.

I have oodles of free time. So much that I hardly have a moment to myself. It’s always jet skiing and flower pressing and foreign language classes. I nearly whacked my head this morning on an egg-laying chicken as I was making my way out the door to pick up wax for letter embossing. In between the stress of that and the wooziness of giving blood, how can I be expected to fly a kite? And my cribbage partner has given up on me. That’s what was on my mind in the shower this morning.

Well, that and the arbitrariness of the days of the week. Why does the day change at midnight? And how different would everything be if it changed at noon? I think this is what you think about when you appear on a show that airs at 3am. I never know which day to assign to it. It really feels like part of the day before, yet technically it’s a new day. Hence the arbitrariness because no one really considers midnight a new day unless you’re talking birthdays or periods of time you’re trying to get through.

I mean yes, it somewhat correlates to the sun, but I don’t believe in the sun, so I refute that theory.

People have been asking me when I’m going to be on Red Eye next—the answer is April 15—which then begs the question of what I’ll be doing until then.

I cannot lie to you: I’ve decided to have some work done.

I’m getting my teeth dyed sun yellow, because yellow is a happy color and who doesn’t like the sun? I wish I could say I’m stopping with my sun yellow teeth but the thing is that getting work done is addictive and empowering and I’ve been living with this face and body for 32, I mean 24 years. I’m ready to really embrace my true self by changing everything.

I’m not rushing into it though. I’ve been slowly but surely clipping pictures from magazines of the features I’d most like to have. I plan on taking these pictures with me to the doctor and asking him to attach them to my face. I’m picturing something that will be like a cross between a mosaic and papier mache, which is pronounced paper muhshay despite how it’s spelled.

As for my body, I’m going to need a new one to match my exciting new face, so I’ve decided to have implants the size of chicken cutlets—okay fine, they’re just chicken cutlets—glued to my problem areas. I’ve requested they be glued with honey mustard, because that really makes the most sense, but I’m not sure that’s feasible at this time. It’s a crude science, despite how advanced it is. While I’m there I’ll probably have some junk injected into my junk and then I imagine the doctor will draw all over me with magic marker. I’ve requested he draw a landscape scene—preferably a cityscape or a beach scene. Something bucolic. Nothing too gritty. I get enough realism watching the news, thank you very much!!!!!!! (Am I right????????????)

And I’m toying with the idea of getting my stomach stapled—to my socks. I’m just super into the idea of internal organs as outerwear.

I was looking through the stats and I’m proud to say that someone reached this site by searching the term “chicken raping.”

And bonus points for anyone who knows what joke the title is a reference to. (Dad, you don’t count.)