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Who looks at this and thinks ‘OMW, what a great picture of me! I’ll make it my profile picture…’?
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Plato: For the greater good.
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.
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.
Samuel Beckett: It got tired of waiting.
Buddha: If you ask this question, you deny your own chicken-nature.
Albert Camus: The gods had commanded it to cross and recross the road.
Winston Churchill: It was moving into broad sunlit uplands…
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 sapiens 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.
Conan Doyle: It is quite a three-pipe problem, Watson.
T. S. Eliot: To examine the wasteland for worms.
Epicurus: For fun.
Ralph Waldo Emerson: It didn’t cross the road; it transcended it.
Richard Feynman: Surely it was joking.
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.
George Mallory: Because it was there.
Jack Nicholson: ‘Cause it (censored) wanted to. That’s the (censored) reason.
Pyrrho the Skeptic: What road?
Ronald Reagan: I forget.
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.
Mr. T: If you saw me coming you’d cross the road too!
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.
Molly Yard: It was a hen!
Zeno of Elea: To prove it could never reach the other side.
Beatles: It was a long and winding road…
George Bush: Read my lips: no more chicken crossing roads.
O. J. Simpson: His wife lived across the road.
A plausible Russian explanation: They ran out of vodka, and he wanted to get to the liquor store three miles down the road.
Elmer Fudd: He cwossed the woad to kill the wabbit.
Charles Dickens: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, chicken were crossing roads, chicken were staying behind…
Orwell: All roads are crossable by all chicken, but some roads are more crossable than others.
Dostoyevsky: After having killed an old hen, the chicken was wandering deliriously along the empty night streets of St. Petersburg and waiting for the darkness that never came; he crossed Nevsky and after a while found himself in an unfamiliar part of the city.
Ecclesiast: There are times for the chicken to cross roads and there are times to stay at the roadside.
Hamlet: For ‘tis better to suffer in the mind the slings and arrows of outrageous road maintenance than to take arms against a sea of oncoming vehicles…
Sappho: For the touch of your skin, the sweetness of your lips…
J. R. R. Tolkein: The chicken, sunlight coruscating off its radiant yellow- white coat of feathers, approached the dark, sullen asphalt road and scrutinized it intently with its obsidian-black eyes. Every detail of the thoroughfare leapt into blinding focus: the rough texture of the surface, over which count- less tires had worked their relentless tread through the ages; the innumerable fragments of stone embedded within the lugubrious mass, perhaps quarried from the great pits where the Sons of Man labored not far from here; the dull black asphalt itself, exuding those waves of heat which distort the sight and bring weakness to the body; the other attributes of the great highway too numerous to give name. And then it crossed it.
Dorothy Parker: Travel, trouble, music, art / A kiss, a frock, a rhyme / The chicken never said they fed its heart / But still they pass its time.
Darth Vader: (Whshhhhhhhhsh) Because it could not resist the power of the Dark Side.
‘Dr M. Goldstein, qualified gynaecologist and obstetrician’ – the words leered down at me from important-looking placards on the wall. Sitting timidly amongst the mosaic of certificates was another notice with the words ‘Waiting Room’ printed on it in small, slender letters
I sunk further into the leather-upholstered chair and turned my attention to the round-framed clock on the wall to my right. ‘Five minutes past three,’ it read, and then it resumed its endless ticking as the second hand chased the unattainable minutes ahead.
Snuggled safely in the corner, I had a good view of the grey-toned room, as the winter sun slunk through the blinds and crossed the always-polished floors. The rims of the coffee table in front of me were overflowing with fanned-out magazines, displaying glossy pictures of beaming mothers cradling chortling babies. To my left, was a wall that wasn’t actually a wall; but rather a puzzle made up of the leather book spines, all neatly stacked with the same laminated label which read ‘Medical Journal’.
Sitting directly opposite me was a young, blonde couple twittering over blurry ultrasounds and giggling shyly every time their eyes met. Further along my row was an older woman in a red dress seated next to her partner. She flicked nervously through a thick journal entitled ‘Genetic Disorders’, and paused on a page named ‘Tay Sachs’. She tugged at her husband’s sleeve and jerked her head towards the open book. Rolling his eyes, he moved a sleek, black cell phone closer to his face and continued playing Angry Birds.
A sudden, biting breeze rushed through the window and reminded me of the glowing orange heater crouched in front of the woman in red. I looked left, and right, and left again, as I quietly sidled closer to the heater - but it was too late. They’d noticed me, and I froze as four pairs of eyes pinpointed me, shoving me into the chair I was hovering over.
I curled myself into a comma, praying that I would disappear into the layers of the leather chair, and that’s when I heard it. A tut, coming from the blonde woman across the room. It sent a jolt through my backbone and I raised my head just in time to see her husband shaking his head. The blonde lady was pointing discreetly to my stomach with one hand whilst her other hand shielded me from the words she was mumbling. The woman in red, now only a seat away from me, nudged her husband and rested her left hand on the page of the medical journal. There, she underlined the words “teenage” and “pregnancy” with a sharpened red nail. Her husband nodded and dropped the cell phone into his jacket pocket. All four of them turned to face me directly; their raised eyebrows pulling their eyes open wider and wider…
Then, somewhere along the hazy neon-lit corridor that stole out of the waiting room, I heard a door open and close. I listened to the echoing raps of a woman’s shoes coming down the corridor and moments later, she emerged.
My mother strode into the waiting room and glanced at the clock. “Quarter past three… we’re late. Come,” she said, waving a packet containing a box of non-descript pills and a scrawled script signed by one Dr M. Goldstein.
I pulled myself out of the chair slowly and took a moment to stretch and survey my surroundings. Across the room, the blonde couple were reading an upside down magazine, whilst the woman in red and her bored husband were engrossed in a conversation about Tay Sachs. I sauntered across the room to the exit. I could feel four pairs of downcast eyes trailing me as I left. The door closed behind me with a self-satisfied click.
** Was too lazy to write anything new but realised I haven’t posted a substantial written piece in a while… So I just posted an old descriptive writing piece from my school days.
This FB photo in *** Nightclub’s album would have been such a great advert for this new club… Except for the fact that there seem to be about 12 people in the club… And except for the fact that the girl on the left is busy dislodging a wedgie of note… ^^
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Hangman