Joyce Chicken

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
—as told by James Joyce

“chickenrun, past Colonel and Sanders, from extra crispy to chicken combo, brings us by a breadpandough kick of cluckulation back to KFC. Sir Chickenheart, poulet d’amores, fr’over the thirteen spices, had dropencre clucked the bucket from his Old Kentucky Hume (Gonna lay my bourbon down!) on this side the cooped funhouse, hunhouse, henhouse to peckerfight his cockamamie war: nor had Marilyn Fired Childrens ripped the recipe: nor had Colonel Mauders kicked the bawket and braised the deads: nor had Leghorn the Foggy planked the arse of the doggy (Ruff! Ruth! Roof!): nor had Gilbert O’Shelton set the chickens free (while surprise lust) dizzydriving Cadillacs and Caddyshacks everywhichway drunkstonedbrilliantdead (mind the fowl, Mr. Kenney): nor had Superchicken heard the caul: nor had King Chicken viced his evile plans to Duckman, (Mwah-ha-haa, bawk bawk bawk!): nor had Chickmagnet aligned him’s ironyfiled AC-DC poles: wrongstory shite, the Cock of the Walk was rightbawk where he started: i.e., to wit, to what, may the feathers fly, the wing itself, in sum, in same, the rude road. Fowl circle! Joke the chicken! What too due? Cross it he must, did. (For avoidance of shame, behold peacesign tracks all the assfault way.) Ask why? No, not, nyet. The bawk stops here. Aye. When all is shed and dumb, he’s a dimbulbbirdbrain feckless fecking foul, in’t he? (Feck!) Yet, still, apparently, inerrently, in dumbness of dimness, even so, morcel of cerveau in his noggin or not, pecking and puckering roadwise in rightangled fashion, this poultry fella (our hiero!) had a dejavoodoo fritzfeeling he’d been herr befire. Just on. Tit of tongue it. Was. Memberberrying along the lions of …

chickenrun, past Colonel and Sanders, from extra crispy to chicken combo, brings us by a breadpandough kick of cluckulation back to KFC ...”