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dorothydalmati1 · 8 months

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Obscure Animation Subject #18: The Chicken Squad

Originally posted on Twitter on January 18, 2023.

Loosely based on the book of the same name by Doreen Cronin, the show is developed by Tom Rogers. It premiered on Disney Junior on May 14, 2021, and 29 half-hours have aired, though its rumored to be cancelled.

The latest episode aired on April 22, 2022, and follows the adventures of Coop, Little Boo and Sweetie, three chicken siblings with their mentor Tully, a retired rescue dog who has heterochromia. The series is a problem solving show with critical thinking and teamwork.

That sounds innocent at first, but looking deeper into it there’s actually a lot more, and its not good I will tell yea. Every character in this show are stereotypical assholes! The main protagonists we follow, the chicks, we got a nerd, a strong Mary Sue and an egotist!

Their mentor, Tully, is a filler character whose wasted potential all around. She could’ve been great representation of a retired rescue dog, especially due to her unique condition, heterochromia iridium (two different colored eyes), but the show did absolutely NOTHING to her!

We also have other characters like Frazz, Dr. Dirt, Dinah and Lt. Scruffy, but their nothing but plot devices, with some of them having stereotypical traits. Also, except the Blue Booted Baddie, the show can’t decide on making villains since the show has them redeemed by the end.

The pacing is awful with scenes lasting way too long (surprising for an 11-minute show), or too short and can’t gasp you attention. The "humor" is horrid for its target audience, just mostly gross or dumb jokes. Some of the jokes are also unsuitable for a preschool show.

I haven’t read the book, but I’ve also heard that its unfaithful to it, with this show being a lot different from it. The show also has an identity crisis because it doesn’t know what it wants to appeal its audience to. Sometimes it gets mature, but sometimes really childish.

Most episodes follow the same formula, with the cliche "the group has a problem, they do it the wrong way, but they do it right the 2nd time" story. As a result, many episodes range from mediocre and bland to just mean-spirited and atrocious. No wonder why its rumored cancelled.

But that’s not all! At times there are bad morals like in the worst episode Honey Bee Boogie Woogie, where it teaches kids that going around bees is fine, but in reality its very dangerous as bees can sting you. The tone is also very childish and treats the audience like idiots.

And now the animation, its awful and terribly rendered. It looks dated for 2021 standards and is even by the same animation service as Kamp Koral. The show has good qualities like passable voice-acting and an interesting premise, but its not gonna save the show at all!

I recommend to watch it if you want to see how unexpectedly bad a preschool show could be. The first season ended on a random episode and it may not get its second season anytime soon. Good riddance, wait most of the crew moved on to a Star Wars preschool show oh god!

(NOTE FROM COMMENTER JusJarBro: The original book’s author, Doreen Cronin served as a consultant on the show, and did mention about Andrew Beaty, the author of Ada Twist, Scientist! (which got adapted to a Netflix series and which she executive produced) where she said: “The book and animation worlds diverge a bit. But the heart is the same.” While yes original creators can have involvement, it doesn’t automatically mean its good. I haven’t seen Ada Twist but from looking at some clips I thought was cute and harmless unlike TCS. Bro also wants to know why TCS show ended up as is, and I said that no one probably didn’t care. I even assumed Disney themselves hating the show, and I can officially confirm that it is cancelled and no second season is planned, with the company even removing the show on their streaming service, but is still available to purchase on other digital outlets.)

#The Chicken Squad #obscure animation #disney junior

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valmare · 1 year

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Congrats!!!! How about "You're the most gorgeous person here" with Bradley!

Oh lord, Em. I love this so damn much. Hopefully I do this justice, Rooster Queen! Enjoy your Bradley, and thanks for being a follower, love!

Kiss Me Hello

“Roo? That you, Bradley?”

Rooster can hear the smack of the screen bouncing off the back door frame as your voice chimes through the back of the house. His eyes search for you through the house for a moment as he drops his gear at the door, reaching to scratch at the ears of the dog that nearly killed himself to beat him to the front door.

Without warning at all, the beagle he’s attempting to greet throws himself around at the sound of your voice, tail helicoptering him down the hall as his claws scramble for purchase that isn’t there on the wooden floor.

With a baleful howl Gander disappears around the corner, in search of his momma, who’s voice lifts in that high-pitched, baby way at the sound of him.

Rolling his eyes at the baby talk you’re giving the dog somewhere in the house, he drops to a knee to begin unlacing his boots, listening to you traverse the house looking for him.

Rooster immediately notices the boxes hanging out against the wall by the closet, new additions to the space that weren’t there this morning. Beyond the mudroom, in the hallway leading to the kitchen, there’s plastic bins marked what he thinks says KITCHEN in your familiar chicken-scratch cursive, though he’s never been able to decipher your handwriting, even after two years of hand-written honey-do lists, notes, letters, and general over-your-shoulder peeking.

Gander is bouncing in excitement, leading you down the corridor toward the front mud room, until you’re leaning against the corner, smiling at him with bright eyes and what looks like paint stained across your forehead and nose.

“Hiya,” you beam at him, dropping into a squat to rub the dog’s ears as Bradley is kicking off his boots, “You’re home early,” you check the clock on the phone that’s hanging out in your back pocket before slipping it in the top of your bra, standing to intercept his hug hello. “It’s only 3. Mav cut you loose for the weekend?”

Your arms are snug around the back of his neck and you draw up on your toes as he wraps his around your waist, dragging you closer against him until your hips are flush with his.

The corner of his mouth ticks up in a small smile as he takes in your appearance—contacts today, probably in favor of the sunglasses perched in your hair, and this close he can tell you’re wearing that tinted moisturizer stuff you really like. It’s doing a terrible job of hiding the slight sunburn on your nose.

You’re not wearing a stitch of any other makeup, which is a little unusual for you. You usually always have mascara or at least some kind of glossy balm or some shit on your lips. Bradley suddenly wishes he’d been home all day, like he does every day, with you to see what you’ve been up to—he’s infinitely curious about the paint on your face, and lifts a hand to thumb the smear on your forehead.

It’s actually spackle. Like, wall spackle. There’s a blip of disappointment that hits his radar, knowing that you’ve actually gone ahead and spackled holes in the spare bedroom without him. It lasts seconds, maybe, before you reach up to kiss the corner of his mouth in that sweet, sloppy way.

He’d wanted to help you with this. It’s one of the projects you’d been hoping to complete before the two of you actually finished the moving process—the room was going to be your in-home office, and the excitement you’ve been exuding about finally having it finished had only been a topic of discussion and pride since you’d purchased the house.

Disappointment is replaced nearly immediately when he realizes that he’s married probably the best woman on the planet. You’ve always been that girl that doesn’t need him, but wants him. Allows him into your world.

Ever since the first date he’d known you were capable of standing on your own two feet with that screwed-on-straight head of yours, boldly independent and determined.

Bradley remembered your second date. He’d probably remember it even in his old, forgetful age, because the humiliation would probably haunt him at least that long. He’d taken you to the South Bay Drive In, thinking it would be a cute second date, after dinner and a walk.

The Bronco had never given him so much trouble until that morning, but he’d figured it was just a fluke and had tossed some coolant in the radiator. No big deal, he’d have his guy check it out later. Thankfully he’d parked no problem, and the two of you had enjoyed the movie, or, what glimpses of it you’d actually managed to watch between talking and swapping life stories.

Rooster had been so enthralled with the animated way you talked with your hands, the expressions on your face, how your tone deepened and lifted when you imitated other people that he couldn’t even remember the movie looking back.

He’d just sat, parked in the driver’s seat, head plunked in his hand, listening to you. Then and there he’d known he could listen to you talk forever and die a happy man. Really, Bradley was sure that date was the date that he’d known he was a goner—you’d stolen his heart in the front seat of his dad’s precious truck, wearing jeans and tank top with your hair pulled up in a cute little bandanna and earrings. He couldn’t think of anywhere better to realize he was in love with you.

Fifteen minutes before he was supposed to take you home he’d started the Bronco, and you’d excused yourself to the restroom before leaving. Idling, thinking you were the hottest thing he’s ever seen, he hadn’t even noticed the temp gauge steadily tick up. It was only when the needle was pegged over 230 and the front of the Bronco was smoking that he realized the damn thing was overheated.

Scrambling to open the hood, you’d arrived just seconds before he was ready to pop the radiator cap. Smacking his hand away violently, you’d screeched “Bradley, no!” like some kind of pterodactyl or shit, hip-checking him aside to stand in front of the motor, hands on the frame of the front fascia as you checked things over. Hands up in surrender, he’d asked you what the big deal was.

“If you’re trying to ruin that pretty face of yours with an explosion of hot coolant, you were close,” you’d said with that little accent of yours that he’d come to absolutely love, “I like the scars you’ve already got, Roo—just don’t add to the collection if you can help it, mkay?” You’d turned, ran your thumb over the faded trace of a pink line on his chin, and winked.

Within a few minutes of bending over the motor delicately, not to get your clothes dirty, you’d determined that one of the coolant lines had completely disintegrated, coolant seeping through the twists and bends of the motor to the parking lot beneath. He was flabbergasted, in awe of you, and so damned turn on that he’d been sure you’d notice the semi aching between his legs.

You hadn’t. You were too good for that, way too sweet to say anything even if you had. Flattening your lips, you’d closed the hood with a sigh, slipping your hands into the front pocket of your jeans as your shoulders lifted, almost sheepishly. He’d asked you if there was any other damage, guessing you knew what you were doing—he didn’t, he wasn’t really a grease monkey to any extent.

He liked to think he was a wrencher, but you’d made quick work of that assumption.

“The old girl needs some coolant lines, but she’s definitely not hot enough to cause any damage. You’re lucky. The engine looks pretty nice, for a Ford.” He’d had the thought to be insulted by the proposed argument you’d baited him with, but your slow smile and another wink had just unraveled him instead, sending the hot blood pumping through his veins straight between his legs.

He’d called Jake, and Hangman had picked you both up at the drive in, in his Ram. That had perked you up.

You’d chatted animatedly about the pickup the entire ride back to your car, which they’d left at the pier, Bradley only a slight shade of green at the way Jake flowed in and out of the conversation about cars so easily.

Hangman had helped him pick up his rig the next day, chuckling as he’d clapped a thick hand on his his shoulder seconds before Bradley dipped beneath the car to hook up tow cables, “Quite the honey you’ve got yourself there, Rooster. I like her. A lot.”

“And that matters because….?”

“Because, since I’ve known ya, you’ve got the same taste in women as you do cars—shitty.” His eye-roll had split the man’s face into that dazzling, shit-eating grin of his, “But she—shit, Bradshaw, she’s a keeper.” He’d whistled between the break in words, head slowly shaking. “You lose that one and it’s fair game for the rest of us, bud.”

The mere idea of Hangman even insinuating going after you had him nearly vibrating. But the entire scenario had him reeling between embarrassment and pride.

He can laugh about all of it, now, because there’s no way you’d be leaving him any time soon for Hangman, but—there’s still that knife of embarrassment that digs into the mesh of his ribs. A wiggle of apprehension in his brain that he’s the lucky one. Doesn’t deserve you, because you’re fucking amazing. That you’re too good for him, always have been, and someday will wake up and remember that.

Warmth from your body against him spreads through his blood, and Rooster tightens the arm around your waist. You’re leaning against him a little harder now, fingers from your one hand playing with the curls at the base of his neck. Tension from the day in the air, from the memory of Seresin nearly promising to steal you, begins to bleed from his shoulders.

“Keepin’ busy, baby?” His eyes cut to the white paste on his thumb and yours follow, and he flexes his thumb to emphasize the point, “Something you want to tell me?” Bradley isn’t actually concerned with what you’ve been doing all day by yourself—the playfulness in his tone matches the curious lift of his brow, and it’s making you smile that wondrous smile that levels him every time you share it.

Color suddenly flares to life on your cheeks and you look away, to your chest snugged up against his. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?” You lift a hand to smooth the curls hanging out in a top knot, which he doesn’t understand, because your hair, like always, looks perfect–even if it’s that effortless, messy perfect.

You seem to remember you’ve been painting and spackling, and that he’s wearing his flight suit, because you nearly jump back from him, checking down the front of yourself, an arm leaving its embrace around his neck to swipe down the front of your shirt.

Eyes cutting up to consider the front of his uniform, your blush and the way you gasp is nearly frantic.

“Bradley! Your flight suit!” You hiss under your breath, moving to brush your hand over his chest, where absolutely nothing has disturbed the decorum stitched into the damn thing. He’ll never convince you it’s fine—you take more pride in his clean flight suit than the damn Navy or any CO he’s ever seen.

“Damnit, I didn’t even think—”

He’s laughing at you, “Baby, it’s fine—”

“It isn’t fine!” You protest, your remaining arm around his neck falling away as you pick at the dried spackle and paint staining your shorts and bare legs. Your eyes track to him, head popping up before you wave your finger over the length of his body, “Here. Strip it off, I’ll put it with the stuff to take back to the apartment. I’ll wash it tonight and you can take it Monday.”

That sounds like more work than necessary—laundry in your apartment is on the first floor, and you’re on the third floor, which means you’ve been hiking laundry back and forth the four years you’ve lived in the damn place. He has other suits on base, in his flight locker, and he can launder them himself—he’s been doing it since before you came into his life. Kind of a pro at it, really.

But, since being married, you’d become nearly obsessive about the basic duties of domesticity—you cooked for him. Cleaned the apartment, even though he’d been living out of a duffle since moving in, waiting for your lease to expire. You did the laundry. He’d had to fight you to take over the bills and finances, otherwise you’d do that too.

Rooster hadn’t ever had a wife before, but he was sure that sharing last names didn’t make you his live-in maid. He would’ve been ecstatic if all you’d done is cook. Not that he was ungrateful, having someone who cared and cleaned his house was nice, but—it wasn’t expected. He was as capable of cleaning the bathroom as the next guy. Actually he enjoyed cleaning, he was a neat freak.

When he’d failed to do as instructed, you stepped up to reach for the zipper on his suit. “Rooster, I said—” He grabs your wrist, halting the action. You blink at his hand around your wrist.

“Bradley, c’mon—”

“I know what you said,” he challenged softly, eyes firmly holding you as the corner of his mouth lifted in a small, knowing smile. “Can you quit being Betty Crocker for two-point-five seconds and kiss me hello, or will that disturb the cosmic balance or somethin’?”

Blinking in surprise, you register the words for a heartbeat before more color spreads across your nose. The little blue ring around your eyes sparkles in the light strobing through the windows of the front door, creating the dark pools of life he remembers. You’ve always had gorgeous eyes.

You break out into a little giggle, rolling your eyes before he tugs at your arm, shuffling you the few steps it takes before you’re pressing your chest up against his again, hand on his pecs as his settle in around your waist again.

Your lids drop to a lusty half mast, head tipping back slightly in a way that says you’re ready for him to kiss you. “Hi, Rooster,” you greet him with a soft coo, a little chuckle in the back of the words that spreads fire through his ribcage.

“And?” His brow pops up, expectantly. You know what’s missing from the greeting.

You smile. “I’m glad you’re home. Happy Friday.” Nose scrunching up adorably, your tongue peeks out between your lips, teasingly.

The running tradition of wishing him a “Happy Friday” when he leaves for work, be it through phone call, text message, or your infamous sticky-notes in his duffle bag, has been going on since the two of you were dating. You conclude the workday with a “Happy Friday” when he’s dismissed for the day and off work, whether he’s seeing you or staying on base.

He loves it, and is pretty sure he can’t live without it. Like air, he craves everything you say.

He angles his head and leans forward to kiss you, softly at first, gently sucking at your bottom lip. The sigh you elicit is deep as you fold against his chest, your hands slowly dragging up his neck to play with his hair. Your tongue darts between his lips, playing at his front teeth in that subtle little way of yours that tells him you want to be Frenched, and he obliges, the gasp in the back of your throat bleeding into a moan that shoots straight to his cock.

Your nails are tugging at his scalp delightfully when you break the kiss, head tipping back to chuckle at the ceiling. Rooster’s half thinking about lathing his tongue across your clavicle, suckling at the hollow of your throat when you hum pleasurably, hand smoothing over his cheek.

Righting your head, you feel for the sunglasses on top of your head, and once you confirm they are present and accounted for, you reach to swipe the pad of your stained thumb over his mustache.

You’re looking at his lips again in that way, but his gut releases a growl that snaps your attention downward, and you’re laughing and pushing him back with a shove before he can reach for you again.

“Hungry much, Roo?” He was. He’d skipped lunch.

“Let’s get out of here for dinner,” he decides, checking his watch. “I’m starving.”

It's early for dinner, and if you leave now, there's plenty of time for that thing he's been trying to convince you to do all day.

The look on your face is horrific, like he’d just walked over your grave. Something in your jaw twitches, and the color on your cheeks deepens even more, if possible. Standing there, unmoving, your eyes drop to consider yourself again, and you laugh genuinely, shoulders shaking before you shake your head, no.

“We’re not going out—look at me! I am covered in plaster, paint, and God knows what else!” Your hands flow over your body, gesturing to the current state of yourself, “And not only that, my hair isn’t washed and I—”

You freeze at the look he’s giving you, like a predator seeking prey; like he’s got you on target lock.

His eyes zero in on you backtracking out of the entryway, and he moves to intercept you on quick feet. You're shrieking with laughter as he attacks you in a hug from behind, arm snagging around your waist to draw you back against his chest. Bradley’s burying his lips against the crook of your neck, and knows it’s a sensitive spot—you erupt in laughter, squirming against the mustache tickling the soft skin behind your ear.

“You’re the most gorgeous person here, baby, and we’re going out to supper,” he enunciates the order with peppered kisses up your neck and along your jaw, gently swaying you back and forth on his feet. You’re curled against his chest, giggling, hand reaching up to play with his hair again. “Get your shit. Let’s go.”

He halfheartedly releases you to do just that. Stripping off the flight suit that stinks like jet fuel and sweat and the stale air of his cockpit, he watches you snatch your purse from the island counter, looking around the floor until you spot the absolutely offensive Crocs you’ve discarded by the fridge.

Why you love those damn things he’ll never know, but you do. And, he can’t help but think you look like a million bucks as you call for Gander to follow you. He’s already clipping on the leash and slipping on his work boots that have been living by the door.

You stop to check yourself in the mirror you must’ve hung in the entry sometime this week.

He drapes his arm around your shoulders, drawing you close to press a firm kiss against your cheek while chuckling. Rooster pulls the door closed behind him with the toe of his boot as he hands you the keys to the Bronco that have been looped around his fingers.

Slipping the aviators low on his nose, you match the action with your own as he guides you to the truck, your arm through his. Helping you into the passenger side, he swats the door closed and leans through the open window, reaching for a curl that’s fallen from your messy updo.

There’s spackle dried around the curl and you brush his hand down, rolling your eyes. “It’s gonna take forever to get this shit out of my hair,” you whine.

A devious smile splits his lips. “I think we’ll manage,” he winks over the dark lenses as you sit back in the seat, offering him a smirk. “If you even remember it’s there by the time I’m done fucking you senseless, sweetheart.”

You snort, loudly laughing at the ridiculous attempt at an innuendo.

“Get your ass in the truck, Bradshaw.”