Thomas Pynchon Chicken Joke Contest

[vze422fs at verizon.net]

This was the best one to date. Bravo!

on 12/14/02 10:23 AM, The Great Quail at quail at libyrinth.com wrote:

>> 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--
>