“Please, Chainsaw, you’re my only hope,”
She said it with that same wide grin—like a bake-off queen about to announce she accidentally added salt instead of sugar. Except this wasn’t Star Wars, and she wasn’t asking for a droid with a message. She was begging for an audience.
“Chainsaw,” she pleaded, “I’ve tried everything. A cooking show, a children’s podcast, even a docu-drama about our spiritual journey through the Whole Foods self-checkout line. Nothing sticks. People watch once and vanish like stormtroopers with bad aim.”
I nodded. This wasn’t my first crisis call. I’ve seen a thousand forgotten celebrities standing in the wreckage of their own PR. The same pattern: too much brand, not enough plot.
“And Harry?” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “His big idea is Polo… on video. He thinks people want to watch a slow-motion replay of him falling off a horse, set to Coldplay.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that sounded like his best pitch so far.
“Please, Chainsaw Chicken,” she said, tugging at her apron like it was royalty’s last line of defense. “You’ve built a whole universe out of nothing but sarcasm and latex mask. Can you help me?”
I leaned in, lowered my voice, and gave her the hard truth:
“Look—this isn’t Star Wars. There’s no galaxy far, far away that can save you. What you need is Ricky Rat chewing through your Netflix contract, Grandma Bubbles on your PR team, and about four metric tons of absurdity. Otherwise? You’re just another rerun waiting for the syndication that never comes.”
Her smile faltered for the first time. She looked down, nodded slowly, then whispered:
“Help me, Chainsaw Chicken… you’re my only hope.”