“You killed my chicken. You ate her. You fried her eggs. SAY IT!”
Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You crossed my road. Prepare to die.
We really have to get a life…
The road…
The final frontier…
These are the voyages…
…to boldly cross where no chicken has crossed before.
Kirk: “You chicken bastard, you killed my son!”
King Richard’s Response: "There are FIVE! ((Three sir…)) Right… There are THREE Chickens!!!
(Monty Python)
-Check that, Thats King Arthur. :smack: They shall say “Ni” to me repeatedly untill I get that right.
Because the Chicken couldn’t tune the road away.
-Dark City
Because it couldn’t remember to forget not to cross the road.
-Memento
Because the road was a prime, and up until now prime numbered roads were safe. Also, the Chicken had run out of boots a long time ago.
-Cube
LOST:
“We all know we’re not the only chickens on this island!”
Late Heinlein:
It becomes evident that the chicken never in fact crossed the road. It was transported to the far side of the road by a self-aware Burroughs-Long continuum craft, without ever crossing the road between the two points.
Because it’s frustrated mom told it to go fowl-play in the road?
I will take the chicken across the road to Mordor. Though I do not know the way.
Who’s more foolish-the chicken, or the fool who follow the chicken across the road?
Babylon 5:
Delenn: “Every road has three sides: This side, the Other side, and the Chicken side.”
The Adventures of Doctor Eszterhazy, by Avram Davidson (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avram_Davidson; http://www.avramdavidson.org/):
Eszterhazy had long made a habit of keeping several enquiries in progress, in some manner or other, simultaneously, hopeful to inoculate himself against the sense of ennui and listlessness that often ensued upon the successful conclusion of an enquiry. And on this morning, while attempting to concentrate his mind on the far more pressing (indeed, to be sure a matter of national security and international tranquility) matter of the theft of the Cyprus Regalia from the Crypt of St. Sophie, he found his attention inexplicably but inexorably diverted to the mystery of the Chicken Who Crossed the Road. It would appear to the casual observer that the worms and corn were as abundant upon the Hither Side of the road as upon the Thither Side, the gravel bits as bright and appealing, the hens as plump and complaisant. Yet Eszterhazy, he more than many others, could readily empathize with the creeping restlessness that could make the near and comfortable side of the road appear stale through familiarity, the unknown far side an inviting field of discovery and possibilities. Just so, but it would be an error of sophomoric dimensions to assume, without more evidence, that a course of action appealing to Eszterhazy might be similarly appealing – or appealing for similar reasons – to a Gallus gallus. As he selected from his humidor, clipped, lit, drew, and meditatively puffed upon a Trichonopoly cheroot, Eszterhazy ruminated (ruminated? aviated? gallicated? brooded? nay, not brooded) upon the words of the so-called Baconian Addendum to the Malleus Maleficarum: “The mind of a chicken is not the same as the mind of a man.” And that, indeed, might well be the answer. But, Eszterhazy wondered, to which question?
:eek: What, and give up show business?
Cube? You sure you’re not thinking of Timecube?
Unnamed Trek Doper:
“Ah. Chicken cutting chickens.”
Tom Servo: “We’ve got chicken-sign!”
In the pale, wan light of the gibbous moon, I watched, almost fainting, as the darkly disturbing, domesticated avian approached the roadway, the sound of its horrid clucking reverberating with eldritch horror. As the indescribable, demented barnyard fowl pecked at the dirt, my mind raced franticly with visions and memories of terrors beyond mortal ken–vast cities glimpsed in nightmares whose architecture was decidedly not human and whose geometry was all wrong, ichtyoid shapes lurking in the bay of haunted Innsmouth, the bizarre, disturbing shadows flickering along the ancient gabled roofs of Arkham, the unsettling references to the dread Ker Nol San Durs in the Necronomicon, the dread slaughterhouses of the mad prophet Pur Doo. At last, as I stood paralyzed with fright, the awful avian lifted its head, flapped its wings and gave tongue to the dreadful cry, *“Bagawk! Bagawk! Chickthu fthagn!!! Bagawk!” * as it stepped into the road. But far, far more horrible even than this was the horrid screeching of the answering cry that came from some unseen being hidden in the darkness on the other side: “It’s Shake and Bake! And I helped!”
My shattered nerves could stand no more. I fainted, and sank into merciful darkness.
Cross or cross not, there is no try.
"Why Did the Duck Cross the Road?"
by Harry Turtledove