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-=[ Why did the chicken cross the road]=-

 [ << ] Chicken: Authors-Modern (18b) [ >>
Why did the chicken cross the Road ?

John Le Carre: Because it knew, at the core of its being where none could ever reach, that its only course of action now that its cover was blown wide open was to try and slip away into the grey, foggy, bleak evening before Smiley came, accompanied by his silent shadow Peter Guillam, asking questions for which there could never be answers.

John D. MacDonald: In any emotional dilemma, the thing a chicken must do is the one that's the hardest.

H. C. Mencken: There's no underestimating the intelligence of the American chicken.

Flannery O'Connor: The chicken, tail feathers spread, crossed the road seeking the face of God.

George Orwell: (1) Because the government had fooled him into thinking that he was crossing the road of his own free will, when he was only serving their interests.
(2) To show the cattle and sheep it could be done. The pigs being more equal did not need the lesson.
(3) Because Big Brother was watching to make sure that it did cross the road, although in its heart, the chicken never did.

Ayn Rand: (1) The chicken crossed the road in order to get away from the flock that is stifling his creativity.
(2) If not for the intransigently independent vision of that first chicken, none of the other chickens would have been able to cross the road. And they condemned him for his acheivement!
(3) Every chicken crossing was made in the name of an altruistic motive. Has any act of selfishness ever equalled the carnage perpetrated by disciples of altruism?
(4) It was crossing the road because of its own rational choice to do so. There cannot be a collective unconscious; desires are unique to each individual.

Robert Ripley: In Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, a chicken crossed the road 76,392 times in one week. Believe It Or Not.

Tom Robbins: (1)Few chickens get the blues, but he made it across the road skinny legs and all.
(2)Well you see, that chicken was a special chicken who was a descendent of a parrot family that once built pyramids for tourist pharohs. This chicken liked the other side of the road whose shamanic whispers beckoned Anastasia, the parrot, like the popped cherry of a ritually consumated white wedding. That's the meaning of it all, baby!

Spider Robinson: Glad. Sad. Mad. What else is there?

Isaac Bashevis Singer: Vat I vant to know is vat drives a chicken to live the right kind of life, and vat makes another vone do terrible things against himself, against the Almighty.

Mickey Spillane: She was a bantam bombshell with a body that could rock Plymouth and a feather on top of her comb, as I watched her crossing the road slowly slithering towards my cubbyhole I call an office.

Adin Steinsaltz: See my book, The Many Petalled Chicken.

Theodore Sturgeon: 95% of what's written here is chickenshit.

Hunter S. Thompson: (1) Out of despair and fear.
(2) Why the &*%$#@ not?

Robert Anton Wilson: Because agents of the Ancient Illuminated Roosters of Cooperia were controlling it with their Orbital Mind-Control Lasers as part of their master plan to take over the world's egg production..

Tom Wolfe: Kesey, muscles rippling under his shirt, a mysterious smile on his face, surrounded by the Merry Pranksters, placed the chicken at the road's edge. The chicken paused at the edge of the road, looking this way and that, and then rending the air with a tremendous, "ba-BAAWWWWKKK!" bolted across the road, its disheveled wings flapping uselessly about, leaving a trail of feathers and dander that, whenever two-ton chromium steel, 300 horsepower tail-finned symbols of Detroit's and America's supremacy passed, would swirl in a miniature version of a cyclone like the ones Mr. and Mrs. America see on the TV news every evening when he's come home from work and she's setting the table for dinner, both only half paying attention to the cyclones that devastate midwestern cow towns on sweltering summer afternoons. And the heat, dander, tornados, asphalt, tail-fins and the sweat of Mr. and Mrs. America as they move mechanically in their daily routine like the figurines in one of those huge medieval clocks on some cathedral in some European town, moving in the same way, every hour on the hour, it was all summed up by the "ba-BAAWWWWKKK!" of a scampering chicken accompanied by the "skritch, skritch" of its feet.

[ Stan Kegel, ]

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