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Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?






Moses: And God came down from the heavens, and he said unto the Chicken, "Thou shalt cross the road." And the Chicken Crossed the road, and there was much rejoicing.

Fox Mulder: You saw it cross the road with your own eyes. How many more chickens have to cross the road before you will believe it?

Richard M. Nixon: The chicken did not cross the road. I repeat, the chicken did *not* cross the road.

Jerry Seinfeld: Why does anyone cross a road? I mean, why doesn't anyone ever think to ask, "What the heck was this chicken doing walking around all over the place anyway?"

Bill Gates: I have just released the new Chicken Office 2000, which will not only cross roads, but it will lay eggs, file your important documents AND balance your checkbook. Unfortunately, when it divides 3 by 2 it gets 1.4999999999.

Oliver Stone: The question is not "Why did the chicken cross the road?" But is rather "Who was crossing the road at the same time, who we overlooked in our haste to observe the chicken crossing?"

Darwin: Chickens, over great periods of time, have been naturally selected in such a way that they are now genetically dispositioned to cross roads.

Louis Farrakhan: The road, you will see, represents the black man. The chicken crossed the "black man" in order to trample him and keep him down.

Martin Luther King, Jr.: I envision a world where all chickens will be free to cross roads without having their motives called into question.

Grandpa: In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Someone told us that the chicken had crossed the road, and that was good enough for us.

Machiavelli: The point is that the chicken crossed the road. Who cares why? The end of crossing the road justifies whatever motive there was.

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

Buddha: Asking this question denies your own chicken nature.

Ralph Waldo Emerson: The chicken did not cross the road - it transcended it.

Colonel Harlan Sanders: I missed one?












I like Monkeys

The pet store was selling them for five cents apiece. I thought this was odd since they were normally a couple thousand. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth so I bought 200 of them.

I like monkeys.

I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one of them drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright.

They kept punching themselves in the genitals. I laughed.

They punched me in the genitals. I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech and hurl themselves off the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into it's third hour.

Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive; they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sort of dropped dead. Kinda like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. God damn cheap monkeys.

I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room; on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my book- case. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs. I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and one hundred ninety-nine dead, dry monkeys.

I tried to pretend that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for awhile, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad. I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in my toilet and I didn't want to call a plumber. I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately there was only enough room for two at a time, so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't go bad.

I tried to burn them, but little did I know that my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and one hundred ninety-seven dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed, The odor wasn't improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of the dead monkeys and I really had to use the bathroom. So I went and severely beat one of the monkeys. I felt better.

I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said the city was not allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him I had a wet one. He couldn't take it either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn't quite know what to say. They pretended to like them, but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.

I like monkeys.










Email: purplehaze00@usa.net