A chicken at rest remains at rest; a chicken in motion remains in motion.
Sir Isaac Newton
To boldly go where no hen has gone before.
Capt. James Tiberius Kirk
The ideal chicken must ideally cross the ideal road. Therefore,
imperfect chickens in this world cross imperfect roads, imperfectly.
Driven by the lash of economic necessity.
It is the essense of chickens to cross the road.
Because it was there.
Sir Edmund Hilary
The question admits of limitless answers, since there is no one
logocentric strategy of discourse that takes primacy over all others.
To impose a meaning upon her accidental existence.
Jean Paul Sartre
Uncle Ike saw her first: just an ordinary chicken, he thought for a
moment, a chicken picking here and pecking there, gradually working her
way across the road toward the lawn; but then he felt the fingers tighten
on his arm and looked up, astounded, to see him, the Colonel, eyes lit
with a new fire, face aglow like a saint seeing a vision: and then it was
destiny, a thing pre-ordained, a fatality, for the Colonel did not reveal
even to him, Uncle Ike, the secret ingredients, not the names of the herbs
and not even the number of them, and so the secret of the crust remained,
a hermetic mystery, locked in the private places of the Colonel's soul:
and yet the vision was real, a true moment of Fate; for the franchises
sold almost as fast as they could slaughter and gut the stock, and they
spread across the country, across the civilized world, making the Colonel
not just a millionaire but a billionaire, and Uncle Ike saw it all, knew
it all, from the beginning to the day when the initials KFC were to be
seen in every city, every town, every hamlet large enough to own two
mules and an Assembly of God church: until now, standing in the shop in
Jefferson, Yoknapatawpha County, where Flem Snopes, the bank president,
hawked and coughed and spat on the floor, then hoisted his britches,
country style, and said to the waitress, "Extra crispy, please."
To leave the place she knew for another place
And to stay there for a while
And then to visit both places.
Whether the chicken crossed the road or the road crossed the chicken
depends upon the inertial system of the observer.
To die. In the rain.
To escape the crawling horror lurking on this side of the road, a
nameless and foetid monstrosity that cannot be conceived save in the
dreams of madness.
There was no chicken, no road, no crossing. There was only an
She was seduced by the dark side of the road.
She had beady inhuman eyes like strange black jewels and the kind of
feathers a bird of paradise might envy. I knew that if they made her a
free-range chicken she'd take off and never look back.
So that its subjects will view it with admiration, as a chicken which
has the daring and courage to boldly cross the road, but also with fear,
for whom among them has the strength to contend with such a paragon of
avian virtue? In such a manner is the princely chicken's dominion
Give me ten minutes with the chicken and I'll find out.
Thomas de Torquemada
Because the external influences which had pervaded its sensorium from
birth had caused it to develop in such a fashion that it would tend to
cross roads, even while believing these actions to be of its own free
The confluence of events in the cultural gestalt necessitated that
individual chickens cross roads at this historical juncture, and therefore
synchronicitously brought such occurrences into being.
If you ask this question, you deny your own chicken-nature.
Out of custom and habit.
It didn't cross the road; it transcended it.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Pyrrho the Skeptic
You tell me.
The news of its crossing has been greatly exaggerated.