It was only a matter of time before the merchandising vultures swooped in. One day Chainsaw Chicken was a man trying to make sense of a world gone sideways; the next, he was a boxed collectible, shrink-wrapped and offered by Ronco.
The statue was advertised as “life-like,” though that depended on how one defined life. It froze him forever in mid–Chicken Dance, arms flapping at impossible angles, tie crooked, and bare feet planted like a motivational warning. The likeness was so sharp, some swore they could hear faint polka music when they walked past it.
Collectors quickly discovered the hidden Easter Egg button, disguised as a missing shirt button. Press it once and the statue abandoned the Chicken Dance, hips swaying into Hula Mode™. A plastic grass skirt somehow materialized, and a tinny ukulele strummed itself into the room. Reports of “spontaneous coconut generation” soon followed.
Ronco’s glossy brochure promised everything in the language of late-night television:
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“Three easy payments of $19.95!”
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“Free shipping, just pay a $37.99 handling and service fee!”
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“Order now and get a second Chainsaw Chicken absolutely free — just pay separate handling!”
Within weeks, offices across America had the statue on desks and filing cabinets. Employees claimed it boosted morale, terrified HR, and confused janitors after hours. Entire neighborhoods gathered around to press the button, each time triggering a fresh round of laughter, confusion, or litigation.
Chainsaw himself maintained a dignified silence about the whole affair, though insiders noticed he winced every time a ukulele played. Whether he approved or not no longer mattered. He had been officially transformed into a Ronco product, wedged permanently between the Veg-O-Matic and the Pocket Fisherman in the catalog of unnecessary American innovations.
Collectors called it rare. Ronco called it revolutionary. Chainsaw called it evidence.