Thomas Pynchon Chicken Joke Contest

[The Great Quail]

> WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE ROAD?
>
>THOMAS PYNCHON

It was difficult once, it will be difficult again. There have been many
chickens and there have been many roads, and in the brain of Clucky (small,
plump, white, several red feathers bespeaking a coquettish nature: as of yet
unmade into fricassee, into countless cacciatores to line the stomachs of
the You Know Who, or more properly, Whoms; mountains of small bones, wishes
made -- crack! split! -- yet unfulfilled: still they munch, munch, munch)
the roads crissed and crossed for countless generations of her kind, lore
from the days of the egg, still warm inside her mother and her mother's
mother's mother and the twinkle in her great-grandsire's beady eye: the
oldest story there is, Henny-Penny, it's the Story of the Road. Which came
first? some jokesters will ask: pluck a multitude of feathered riddles from
the henhouse, a string of mocking pecks punctuated by the pendulum of the
axe under an eternally falling sky -- which came first, the chicken or the
egg? Neither: the Road. Which is to say, Clucky reflected, the Farmer: Man
with his lines, his divisions, his white-line fever, a ribbon of murderous
asphalt bringing car after car, each one with death grinning from its steely
grill, grinning like a Detroit whore with a bad case of heavy metal clap and
those old Motown rolling blues. Even now she could feel the Egg within
twitching to life, her cloaca still warm from her morning pas-de-deux with
the old red Cock. Should she cross? Her Egg flashed its omphalic message,
the terminal station on a telegraph line as ancient as the first
archaeopteryx dolefully eyeing Caveman Joe whacking down that jungle path
with that old shinbone: DO IT BABY, the drumbeat sent up millions of years
from the moist ferns. And to the side of her, the cows: DO IT BABY, standing
up with udders swaying, tap-tap-tapping that tambourine, the farm cat
scratching his fiddle as the rats break into a Can Can, the cars and geese
honking a makeshift accompaniment in F-sharp minor:

Old Mac-Dona-ald had a FARM--
     EE EYE EE EYE OH
Chicky Clucky gotta cross that road,
     THOUGH
You know it will on-ly do you HARM
          But you gotta do
         What you gotta do
(Said the scor-pi-on to his frog-gie bride
     Sorry for that sting, gal, but thanks for the ride)
     EE EYE EE EYE OH!
(So no mo' oh-no, pollo,
     No mo' ya screama, gallina)
         'Cuz ya gotta do
         Whattcha gotta do
Though the sk-y may fall
An' the far-mer call
     You got all the PREP! Ya know it's HEP!
So, ba-by, take that that fi-r-r-r-r-r-st --
     STEP!

Now everybody--