Yesterday we crossed the road. Look what has happened. Urrgghhh *cluck!* They (read: human) then curiously asked WHY? WHY? WHY DO THE CHICKENS CROSS THE ROAD?!?!?! And they responded to their own questions *weirdos*

Plato: For the greater good.

Aristotle: To fulfill its nature on the other side.

Karl Marx: It was a historical inevitability.

Machiavelli: 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 maintained.

Hippocrates: Because of an excess of light pink gooey stuff in its
pancreas.

Jacques Derrida: Any number of contending discourses may be discovered
within the act of the chicken crossing the road, and each
interpretation is equally valid as the authorial intent can never be
discerned, because structuralism is DEAD, DAMMIT, DEAD!

Thomas de Torquemada: Give me ten minutes with the chicken and I’ll
find out.

Timothy Leary: Because that’s the only kind of trip the Establishment
would let it take.

Douglas Adams: Forty-two.

Nietzsche: Because if you gaze too long across the Road, the Road
gazes also across you.

Oliver North: National Security was at stake.

B.F. Skinner: 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 will.

Carl Jung: 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.

Jean-Paul Sartre: In order to act in good faith and be true to
itself, the chicken found it necessary to cross the road.

Ludwig Wittgenstein: The possibility of “crossing” was encoded into
the objects “chicken” and “road”, and circumstances came into being
which
caused the actualization of this potential occurrence.

Albert Einstein: Whether the chicken crossed the road or the road
crossed the chicken depends upon your frame of reference.

Aristotle: To actualize its potential.

Buddha: If you ask this question, you deny your own chicken-nature.

Howard Cosell: It may very well have been one of the most astonishing
events to grace the annals of history. An historic, unprecedented
avian biped with the temerity to attempt such an herculean achievement
formerly relegated to homo sapien pedestrians is truly a remarkable
occurence.

Salvador Dali: The Fish.

Darwin: It was the logical next step after coming down from the
trees.

Emily Dickinson: Because it could not stop for death.

Epicurus: For fun.

Ralph Waldo Emerson: It didn’t cross the road; it transcended it.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: The eternal hen-principle made it do it.

Ernest Hemingway: To die. In the rain.

Werner Heisenberg: We are not sure which side of the road the chicken
was on, but it was moving very fast.

David Hume: Out of custom and habit.

Saddam Hussein: This was an unprovoked act of rebellion and we were
quite justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on it.

Jack Nicholson: ‘Cause it (censored) wanted to. That’s the
(censored) reason.

Pyrrho the Skeptic: What road?

Ronald Reagan: Well,……………….

John Sununu: The Air Force was only too happy to provide the
transportation, so quite understandably the chicken availed himself
of the opportunity.

The Sphinx: You tell me.

Henry David Thoreau: To live deliberately … and suck all the marrow
out of life.

Mark Twain: The news of its crossing has been greatly exaggerated.

Mishima: For the beauty of it. The chicken’s extension of its
sinuous legs sent shivers of a dark despair into the souls not only of
the silently watching hens but also the roosters, who felt a sudden
sexual desire for their exquisite comrade. The dark courage of the
chicken was as beautiful as drops of dew upon jade at midnight, struck
by a partial moon, its light filtered through clouds. One of the
deeply aroused roosters could stand the intensity of the moment no
more and bit off the head of the beautiful, courageous chicken-hero,
whose wine blood was deliciously drunken by the road, and he died.

Johnny Cochran: The chicken didn’t cross the road. Some
chicken-hating, genocidal, lying public official moved the road right
under the chicken’s feet while he was practicing his golf swing and
thinking about his family.

Camus: The chicken’s mother had just died. But this did not really
upset him, as any number of witnesses can attest. In fact, he
crossed just because the sun got in his eyes.

John Sununu (again): I would argue that the chicken never crossed the
road at all. That it is a story concocted by the Clinton
Administration to distract attention from their failed agriculture
policy. Where is the evidence that the chicken crossed the road?
Where, Michael?

Michael Kinsley: Oh, John, come on! Everybody knows the chicken
crossed the road. What evidence do you need? It’s obvious that the
chicken crossed the road. Your whole argument is just a smoke and
mirror tactic to distract us from the fact that most chickens polled
now back the Democratic Party. You ought to be ashamed of yourself,
John.

Siskel: I don’t know why it crossed the road, but I loved it. Thumbs
up!

Ebert: I disagree. The whole thing left the audience wondering; the
chicken’s crossing the road was never clearly explained and the
chicken didn’t emote very well. It couldn’t even speak English!
Thumbs down.

Michael Kinsley: But you both agree it did cross the road, right?
See, John. I’m right as usual.

Arrrgh. The fiasco. We swear we would never cross the road again if this may cause so much attention. *Wooosshshshshs… Chick-Tune runs with her best outfit, crossing the road over and over again. and under..*

Yet another book from the chickens about the chickens (Of course it is about the chickens. What else can it be possible about? What a totally unnecessary statement.)

Mother Hen and YC stumbled upon it while they were casually strolling by the river. Hm, Mother Hen and YC walking together. We wonder what they were talking about. Gossip time!!!

A closer look at the book and you would see the title (well, you would see the title even if you don’t look that close. Doh!) What’s with the title here? Just look at the title. *annoyed*  “Bitter with Baggage..” Why is it so depressing? That does not sound like us at all. No sir, it is not. We–the chickens–are always always happy *the famous furious head shaking move*

And look at the model in the book. Is that YC? Well, well. Do you mean to say that she has a job but she never has told us about it and did not even bother to take us for a worm treat with her royalty from the book? Arrgh, such a stingy chickadee!! We never knew that about YC. Things you learn about the chickens that you think you knew. *heart broken*

Anyway, have you found out why Mother Hen and YC took a (secret!) stroll along the river? Perhaps they are talking about that beef and buff. Or The Chicken (oh, good old chap The Chicken. We wonder whatever happens to him.)

Or perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, they are talking about Emilio the buffalo!!!!!! *sllluuurrpp… Hey, what’s with the slurping sound? I thought chickens were supposed to be vegetarian?!?!*

And we (We think you get it by now, you not included!!) will write you this: We are off to the high land!!  I mean, just look at these pictures. We so, like, want to be, like, like that. So groovy!! *envious*

Oh gosh!!! We soooo want to be like that. Adventure!!!! Ha ha ha!! Yessssss, Molly!! Here we come!!! *Euphoric condition. Too much dry hays, obviously*

Mother Hen — behave. We advise you to stay away from Emillio. But if you don’t, do tell *wink wink wink wink*

YC — don’t behave so much *wink wink wink — this is obviously ChickTune speaking*

Chick-a-boo – you comin’? We know you wanna..

Be back in summer. In the meantime, have fun fun fun living ving ving.

PS: Pete, you are da best, darling!!!!

PPS: Will write more when we have some ideas. The chicken brain is not doing so well these days.

Our highly intelligent chicken brain says that something is wrong. The winner. There is something unchickeny about the winner of this year’s Chicken Idol. *scratching our wings. And each other’s back. *

Chickens cannot reach our own back you see. Hey, but wait a minute, how come the new Chicken Idol is able to scratch its back? And look at the feet. Is that even foot? Too fleshy. What a disgrace. And look at the tail. Why is it not spreading our usual beautiful-beyond-comprehension spread? Hmmm. Getting more suspicious.

We don’t know what is wrong here. Our most brilliant ones should go under deep investigation here. But our sharp poultry intuition says that the winner is not genuine. A bit fake.

What it means, we still don’t know. Mother? What do you think? Chick-a-boo? A little hint, please? Are we missing something here?

Look at the picture below. Do you think it deserve to be a Chicken Idol? We don’t think so. We just don’t have a strong reason to oppose yet. *In-depth comprehensive investigation begins.*

Hey, what has happened to stories about Big Brother? Oh hush, this one is far more urgent. Have priorities for Hen sake!

The hens–seeing the golden opportunity: “You see, chickadees, this is what will happen if you don’t listen to your mother.”

Humans, it’s about time! Ducks, quack out and step aside! Buffaloes, moo yourself! Worms, eat dirt! Dogs, roll over and play dead! Especially you fluffy poodles.

Hush hush. Btw, who are those posing for the billboard ad anyhow? Do we know them? The smaller one on the right is definitely YC, but the other one does not look like The Chicken at all. And where the hen do they think they are going? On a holiday? Looks like it. Together??!?!

Do you think …? YC with another… ??? Nooo… Could it be??? Our YC? Ck ck, naughty YC. Oh, we are so proud of you! [The last comment is, obviously, made by ChickTune.]

Big Bro, to put it lightly, is a total weirdo.

Hush, you should not say that to a fellow chicken. But that is true isn’t it? Even if it is, you still cannot say that explicitly. Be more chickenly suave for hen sake. Well, we cannot give a clear idea if we do not tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. [Fact: this is where that famous legal oath originated from us, the chickens].

Anyway…

About the Big bBro.

Our Big Bro is very much into that higher aspiration thing-o. [aspirination you mean? Does he have a constant headache? Because I do, too. No, aspiration, you chicken tail.] He, according to a fellow weirdo, always thirsts for the meaning of life.

Hence, his chosen road less traveled by any chicken that has ever lived [What about the lower non-chicken being? Aha, what about chicken that never lives? Interesting question.. *getting philosophical, we are the brainy chickens!*].

Big Bro used to be this high-profile high-achieving hard-working party animal [granted, he is an animal indeed. He is a chicken for hen sake].

He was practically on top of his game, being a consultant in Poultry and Ranch (or PR for short). He networked with all sorts of animals in the farm. He always had that peculiar way of talking, walking and chatting, but we never minded. We were very proud of him. He was odd, but that was okay.

Until one day, zapped. He decided to drop them all off. Then we started to understand him less. [What is there to understand anyway? He is harmless, that is all that matters to us. And he is a fun subject to discuss about. Odd rooster that he is.]

You have heard of Yoga, yes? Meditation? Spirituality? Touch healing? Well, we have not, not until Big Bro told us about it. Then we have heard of it. Although understanding them, is completely a different animal. [Animal? Is it not chicken anymore? Duck perhaps? Or buffalo? *suspicious eyes to Mother Hen. Wondered how the ‘touch healing’ is working out for her.*]

One day Big Bro is around, another he is MIA. You will never know with Big Bro. He tends to disappear from time to time [or disapparate [too much Hairy Poultry chick lit, we bet]].

But that is okay, too! We love our cool Big Bro Chicken [Big Bro Chicken….BBC! Hah, I bet he comes from that human country where BBC originates from as well. Or at least he has been there and will go there again.] He’s still weird though. Honestly.

Anyway, the next story is SUPPOSED to be about a Big Bro adventure, if we ever get round to writing it. We’re very busy, you see.

Just Mother and her quiet friend, Ellie–short for ‘Elegant Crystal Butterfly Hair Clip’. Yup, of the Clip family. Clipken’s very own elder sister.

“So what’s with your little sister Clipken, El?” Mother Hen asks Ellie.

Ellie’s eyes go out of focus and get a bit teary. (She is a clip with butterfly form, so it is easy to pinpoint the eyes. Or so we think.)

“I don’t know, Mo. (Ellie’s nickname for Mother. We bet she is the only one who DARES to call Mother that. What nerve a hair clip has. Maybe it is because of the plastic or that fake diamond she has.) It started from that d*mn fortune teller telling Clipsy that she would one day be a chicken,” she explains.

“I don’t mind that,” Mother responds. “It is just that your Clipken is sort of a desperate social climber. She tries too hard to mingle. She is acting out and not everybody is able to see the humor in it.”

“I see,” says Ellie, slowly flapping her beautiful purple furry butterfly wings playfully.

[Camera shifting to Chickendom]

“Who wants to play?!” one spring chicken asks a flock of friends. “Me! Me! Me!” Clipken enthusiastically screams, waving her wings rapidly. The flock freezes. “It’s time for bed.” Everybody turns his/her tail, closes his/her eye lids, and goes to sleep.

“Now remember: Whoever gets to the fence first is the winner!” shouts a chick. “Alright, count me in. Never underestimate Super Clipken!,” you-know-who glows and starts to run. Other chicks start to run too, but to the fence on the opposite side.

Clipken polishes her yellow featherless body, whistling a happy tune. She smiles proudly and stands tall on top of an egg. A matured female chicken approaches and carelessly sits on top of Clipken. Then falls a sleep. zzzzzz.

[Points made. Chickendom zooms out. Returning to Mother and Ellie.]

“Honestly, you need to do something about that, Ellie darling. I think you are the only one who can get through to her,” Mother says, choosing her words carefully.

“I see,” says Ellie, slowly flapping her beautiful purple furry butterfly wings playfully.

‘I see?’ Does she, really? We are getting suspicious here. It just seems a bit fishy (or clipsy?) that Ellie too likes to flap her so called wings. Perhaps it runs in the family. We wonder whether there is hereditary disease among the Clip species. Must check Chickipedia on this. Or maybe better in the Clipkipedia.

“Oh well, let’s worry about that later and enjoy this moment, shall we? Listen to that sound,” Mother says, titling her head, smiling, eyes wide shut.

“What sound?” Ellie asks.

“Exactly,” Mother smiles warmly.

Aaaaawwwwwhhh, leave it to Mother to make such romantically smart remark. Hugs hugs hugs. Nudge nugde. Hugs hugs hugs. We luv our Mother. Hail to the queen!

Mother’s eyes twinkle like we have rarely seen them before. (Except when she is with or even catches a glimpse of Emilio, of course. Woo-hoo! Gossip time!!!!)

From a distance, a familiar petite yellow figure is approaching rather hastily. Mother squints her eyes and smiles. Not to worry. It is a friend. The nice relaxing time shall persist. “Come, YC, sit beside me. Perfect timing…for you,” Mother Hen says, though not in so many words.

YC quietly snuggles under Mother’s right wing. (Unless you see it from the opposite angle, then you might consider it as left wing. Well, actually no, it is still Mother’s right wing, really.) And she stays there. Silently. She looks so peaceful. And happy. *hugs*

The wind blows gently. “Yes, of course, you too, Boo. Anytime.”

[pic taken from here.]

PS: Have a great holiday!!! Share some dirts with us when you return. *Eyes glittering with curiosity, hungry for juicy gossips.*

It is from Molly. You know, THE Molly. You don’t know? Ah! THE Molly! The one that has ditched her solemn stable life and rising career as egg psychiatrist.

You know how difficult it is to find a good egg psychiatrist in Chickendom? And it is important too—that tender age of being an egg. She was good at it, you know? Such a shame to throw the career away.

THE Molly that has flown to far away territories and ventures to the unknown. Strange girl that Molly, say the elders and youngsters alike. But they are just jealous. Of course we are not. Yes you are. Are not. Are too. Are not. Are too. Are not. Sshshsh.

The chickens read on.

Date: don’t know, don’t really care.

Beloved beautiful chickens:

I hope all is well with you. Big hugs to Mother Hen and deep respect for Chick-a-boo. How’s little YC? And Chicken? Getting more handsome everyday, I bet. Wink wink.

***Chicken secretly blushes; and so does YC, for a different reason***

I am by the Caspian Sea at the moment.

***Where is it? Nobody knows *furious shaking of head trademark*, but it sounds oh so cool. Perhaps it is near the place where that nice ghost Casper resides. No, that would be Casperian Sea then, not Caspian. But let’s not scratch that possibility out for the time being.***

The Caspian Sea is the largest endorheic body of water on Earth by area, variously classed as the world’s largest lake or a full-fledged sea. It has a surface area of 371,000 square kilometers and a volume of 78,200 cubic kilometers.

It has a maximum depth of about 1,025 meters. It was perceived as a sea by its ancient coastal inhabitants because it is salty and seemed boundless. It has a salinity of approximately 1.2%, about a third the salinity of most seawater.

***Huhhhhh!?!?!?!?! What kind of drinks do they serve there anyway?***

The Caspian Sea holds great numbers of sturgeon, which yield eggs that are processed into caviar. So I can continue being egg therapist, although it is not easy changing line from being chicken egg therapist to fish egg therapist.

***Why? Fish egg is smaller. Surely it MUST be easier.***

Although there is no chicken around, the area has plenty of other bird species, the Caspian gull and the Caspian tern.

***You know what that means. No parties. No chicken-style full of fun parties. How can one (chicken) survive? Poor Molly. She’s losing it (the feather,we mean). Perhaps that is why she puts on that strange hat of hers.***

Got to go now. Got sunset to watch. I really hope that you are here with me to share this joyous moment. Miss you all.

Love and light,
Molly

PS: The picture was taken by a good friend of mine, Darling Pete, which happens to be a fellow traveler of mine for the past months.

***Pete? Who is Pete? Can it be.. No, cannot be him. Who is Pete? Gossip time!!***

Owwwwh, that sweet Molly. She misses us, the incurably cute flock of beautiful feathers. Why does she say love and light? What love? What light? Where? *Looking right and left, above and below, front and back. You get the point.*

By the way, did you hear that? She wants us there. Let’s go. Let’s go. Got to go pack. How do we get to this Casperian Sea? Do we turn left or right by the gate in front of the farm? Anybody seen Casper? We need to ask him for direction.

Enthusiastic bunch those chickens. Not so bright though. Not that bright at all.

PS: The chickens have forgotten that they are on strike. One letter is all it takes to make them forget it all. Life moves on. Not so bright those chickens. Short memory span, too.

Then suddenly. WE WANT MORE! WE WANT MORE! NO, LESS. I MEAN, MORE. I THINK IT SHOULD BE LESS! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? OF COURSE IT IS MORE. IT IS ALWAYS MORE. NO LESS, I MEAN… WHICH ONE IS IT ANYWAY???!! *annoyed*

The youngsters and elders are not asleep anymore. Wide awake, alarmed, and annoyed. It is the International Hen Day.

The productive adult female chickens are on strike. They believe that, as the lawyer and reps put it, they have been treated inhumanely, we mean, un-chickeny. Human should have better respect towards the “professional egg and white meat providers.”

Here’s a handy tip for you. Never ever get the chickens pissed off *excuse the French here*. They have high pride and high solidarity (if and when they want to, otherwise they are simply cheap, aggravating, and totally could-not-care-less-about-you-and-your-mom self-centric two-feet feathery balls.)

You do not want to have the chickens annoyed at you—especially the hens, you don’t want to mess with them. Their beak, really hurts, we tell you—Do you know that there are more chickens in the world than any other bird? More than 24 billion of us around. Yup, this is real statistics, and this is from five years ago. Yes sir, we are popular, huge and strong!!! We demand respect!!!!

We demand SOME SLACK. I mean, come on. Hens produce as many as 300 eggs a year. And you still think it is not enough???!!! *getting emotional.*

We demand STABLE NESTING PLACE. When we lay an egg in one spot, we want that very same spot to be available for our next eggs. Hens should also have priority access to food and nesting locations, compared to those (useless!) roosters who can only crow and flap wings.

We demand chickeny BUSINESS HOURS. A girl got to have her manicure, shopping, chatting, blogging, and coffee hours. Gotta, gotta, gotta.

We demand much BETTER PENSION PLAN. After our egg-laying ability starts to decline, then you just toss us all off. Did not your mother ever teach you anything? *still emotional*

We demand better TRANSPORTATION MODE (preferably by air). Chickens are explorers by nature. We want to fly to explore our surrounding (btw, have you seen that handsome Italian roosters at the barn next door? Mama mia!! Let’s explore!!). And as you know, domestic chickens are, uhm, not exactly the best frequent flier on the planet. So an aircraft or chopper would be good. *pushing it a bit too much*

So there you go. WE WANT MORE! WE WANT MORE! NO, LESS. I MEAN, MORE. I THINK IT SHOULD BE LESS! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? OF COURSE IT IS MORE. IT IS ALWAYS MORE. NO LESS, I MEAN… WHICH ONE IS IT ANYWAY???!! *annoyed*

Sigh. The racket (brit’s for “noise”). Only Mother Hen can put an end to this *cough* ridiculous *cough again* commotion.

Where is she? Mother??!! Mother!?! We need our sleep.

[pics taken from the royalty-free Getty Images and BBC.]