Once on a farm next to a busy highway, there lived a pompous rooster named Squawkington, who fancied himself a great thinker and philosopher. He was famous for his loud and annoying crow, which sounded nothing at all like a rusty gate slowly murdering a stuck pig. He was also famous for his unshakeable belief that he, and only he, knew the One True Way to cross the road.
One sunny morning, as the animals gathered for their weekly Road-Crossing Council, a timid hen named Bukatrice stepped forward with a proposal. “I’ve been observing traffic patterns,” Bukatrice said, scratching out a careful diagram in the dirt with her claw. “If we move in a staggered V-formation at exactly 9:17 a.m., when the farmer’s truck is still in the barn and the cat is asleep, and just after the neighbor has left for work, our risk of becoming pancakes drops by 94 percent!”
The other chickens murmured appreciatively. But Squawkington was having none of it. He puffed out his chest feathers, waddled to the front, and let loose a torrent of glorious wisdom. “Bukatrice,” he crowed, “Everyone knows that bonnets like yours are worn by boring, old-fashioned hens who couldn’t cross a puddle. Worse, the eggs you lay are speckled! Only scatterbrained knucklebeaks lay speckled eggs. What’s more, we all remember that in 2019 you were seen talking to a squirrel. Need I remind you all that squirrels have never produced a single peer-reviewed road safety paper. Worst of all, you once stepped on a Lego and limped for a week. How can we trust the road-safety theories of a hen who gets outwitted by a plastic toy!”
The barnyard fell silent. Bukatrice blinked twice. “So… you’re saying that my plan is bad because I have a bonnet and speckled eggs?”
“Exactly!” Squawkington crowed triumphantly. “Case closed! Now MY plan, running straight across while screaming at the top of my lungs, remains the gold standard. Meeting adjourned!”
The birds shuffled away, oddly convinced. After all, Squawkington had made Bukatrice sound like a complete idiot. He had pointed out each and every one of her flaws, with great eloquence. Who could argue with that?
The next day, at precisely 9:17 a.m., Bukatrice and a small group of friends crossed the road in the staggered V-formation. They waved happily as they pecked at the grass, which was undeniably more interesting than the grass on the home side. They returned at 9:25, fully satisfied that their planning and curiosity were well worth it.
Squawkington and his loyal followers charged across screaming at 10:00. The farmer’s truck was no longer in the barn, and the cat was awake and feeling frisky. Feathers flew. As he limped back to the coop, missing most of his shiny tail feathers and all of his dignity, Bukatrice quietly asked, “So, was the problem with my plan the timing, the geometry, or the speckled eggs?”
“Your bonnet is stupid.” Squawkington squawked, coughing up a tire tread.
That day, I’d like to tell you that the chickens all learned a valuable lesson. Calling someone a speckled-egg-laying, ex-squirrel-talking, Lego-losing loser doesn’t magically turn a good idea into a bad one. I’d like to tell you they learned about the Ad Hominem fallacy, and that the farm truck doesn’t care about fashion sense. But they didn’t. See, chickens are not very bright.