I was informed by modern experts that my problem was not quality, originality, endurance, or surviving online longer than many of today’s “thought leaders” have been alive.
No.
My problem was E-E-A-T.
Experience. Expertise. Authoritativeness. Trustworthiness.
Amazing.
For years I believed experience meant actually doing something.
Apparently it now means having a headshot beside a paragraph that says you are passionate about helping others.
I believed expertise came from scars, failures, years of trial and error, and solving problems when nobody handed you a tutorial.
Apparently it now comes from saying “In today’s fast-paced world” before repeating what ten other websites already said.
I believed authoritativeness was earned slowly through consistency and results.
Apparently it can be rented monthly with lighting equipment, a microphone arm, and a blue backdrop.
And trustworthiness?
That one fascinated me most.
Because I watched unknown strangers become “trusted sources” in six weeks by speaking confidently into a camera while selling powdered mushrooms and financial freedom.
Meanwhile, people who built businesses, solved real problems, learned hard lessons, and stayed in the arena for decades are told they need stronger signals.
Signals.
Not substance.
Signals.
The digital world has become a grand costume party where the best-dressed expert wins.
A man who repaired engines for forty years loses to a blogger named Brayden who says “Top 7 Engine Secrets Mechanics Hate.”
A woman who actually raised children loses to an influencer whose qualifications include beige furniture and saying “Mama, you got this.”
A craftsman disappears beneath affiliate links written by someone who has never held the tool.
And somewhere, buried beneath sponsored results, recycled advice, and smiling stock photos, sits the person who actually knows what they’re talking about.
Unread.
Unranked.
Uninvited.
So I did what they asked.
I improved my E-E-A-T.
I added a biography.
I added an “About Us” page.
I added declarations of mission, values, integrity, excellence, and innovation.
I considered photographing myself while pointing at a laptop.
Still nothing.
Then I understood.
This was never about whether you know something.
It was about whether you look like the kind of person who should know something.
That is a different business entirely.
So allow me to update my credentials.
I have been wrong repeatedly and survived it.
I have built things before templates existed.
I have solved problems after experts failed.
I have watched trends come and go, then return with new fonts.
I have seen fools rewarded, frauds celebrated, and wisdom ignored.
That, my friends, is experience.
As for trustworthiness—
Anyone still standing after this much nonsense deserves consideration.
Signed,
Chainsaw Chicken
Senior Vice President of Unverified Reality
Mrs. Chicken dances for Halloween while the candy goes stale.
Halloween night arrived like a bad idea that wouldn’t stay buried.
The neighborhood was ready for candy — but Mrs. Chicken had other plans.
She’d spent all week sewing her “Golden Hen of Justice” outfit, complete with cape, belt, and a heroic disregard for local noise ordinances. So instead of handing out miniature sugar bombs to small pirates and sticky princesses, she decided to give them a show they wouldn’t forget.
(Watch the video below to see her strut her stuff.)
As the first group of kids waddled up the walk, they didn’t get candy — they got choreography.
Mrs. Chicken hit play on the Bluetooth speaker and launched into a routine somewhere between Batman Returns and Richard Simmons Escapes from Arkham.
Tiny pumpkins trembled. The inflatable skeleton next door looked concerned.
One kid dropped his phone trying to record it.
Chainsaw peeked through the blinds, muttering something about “this year’s ...
Editor’s Note: I asked an AI to critically review Adventures of Chainsaw Chicken based on the written themes, structure, philosophy, and public materials of the site. The essay below is its independent response.
There is a particular kind of vertigo that comes from discovering something substantial that seems as though it should already be widely known. Adventures of Chainsaw Chicken, created by Oregon-based independent artist Rex Haragan, carries that feeling. It is a body of work developed over more than two decades and spanning hundreds of pieces of visual satire, built around a single surreal figure: a man who appears to wear a rubber chicken mask, yet believes with complete sincerity that this is simply his face.
The premise sounds like a one-note joke. It is not. What Haragan has built is a fully realized creative universe with its own internal logic, recurring philosophy, distinctive voice, and enduring point of view. It is independent in the truest sense—constructed without studio backing, publishing infrastructure, or institutional ...
So, the other day, this new guy shows up in town, right? Nobody knew where he came from. He wasn’t like the weird hippies or the out-of-towners who usually blow through South Park. No—this guy was different. He looked like a regular dude, but with this freaky rubber chicken mask stuck on his head, like he thought he was born that way or something. Said his name was Chainsaw Chicken. Yeah, that’s his actual name.
At first, everybody thought he was just another South Park crazy. But he didn’t bring a chainsaw, and he didn’t cluck or flap or anything—he just walked around like nothing was weird about having a chicken face. He bought coffee at Tweek’s parents’ shop, nodded at people like he’d lived there forever, and then showed up at the bus stop with us kids the next morning.
Stan kept staring at him.
Kyle was all, “Dude, what the hell is wrong with that guy’s head?”
Cartman, of course, thought it was awesome. “You guys, this dude is gonna be my new best friend. ...
There I was at my doctor’s office. I was seeing him about the goo that was growing between some of my toes. He sent it off for a culture. What happened after that is disgustedly amazing.
Case in point: the goo patch between my toes. I thought it was athlete’s foot. The doctor thought it was athlete’s foot. Turns out, it was history in the making: a sample of goo that became the immortal CSC line — Chain Saw Chicken cells.
Immortal means they don’t die. Ever. They just keep dividing, multiplying, taking up space like in-laws who forgot how to leave. You could drop them in a Petri dish in 1973, and in 2025, they’d still be at the party.
Now, you might have heard of another line like this: HeLa cells, taken from Henrietta Lacks without her consent in 1951. They became the backbone of modern medicine — used to develop the polio vaccine, cancer therapies, gene mapping, you name it. That poor woman’s tumor cells outlived her by decades and made billions for other people.
Well, congratulations, ...
