Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get to the other side.
To prove it wasn’t chicken.
Because the chicken behind it pushed it in.
Because it thought it owned the road.
There’s lots of silly answers. That’s the point.
But no one ever asks what happens when the chicken gets stuck in the middle, standing in the center divider, traffic flying by both ways, realizing it never planned for that — and is now roadkill.
That’s not a joke.
And that’s exactly where we are with Donald Trump and his war with Iran.
We were told this was an “excursion.” A short step off the curb and back, a quick crossing, a demonstration of strength, and then done. Controlled. Limited. Shock and awe and all’s good.
Instead, the chicken stumbled into a super-highway.
And now it’s stuck in the center divider, cars and semi-trucks screaming past, and feathers flying.
Iran didn’t fold. Didn’t step aside. The road pushed back, hard and unpredictably. The region lit up. Neighboring countries took hits. Infrastructure burned. Costs climbed into the tens of billions, maybe more.
Then came the Strait of Hormuz. Open. Closed. Threatened. Reopened. Each swing sending tremors through global markets. Oil doesn’t like uncertainty, and this was nothing but uncertainty. The chicken got caught dancing for its life out there:
It’s over.
No, it’s not.
Ceasefire.
No ceasefire.
We’re done here.
No, we’re taking out the bridges, the powerplants; we’ll erase an entire culture.
The chicken, stranded in the middle, announcing to the world it’s already crossed, while traffic flies by in both directions.
This is what the middle looks like.
There’s no pause button. No reset. No way to step back onto the curb and rethink this trip. Every option starts to look like staying on the side of the road might have been the better idea.
Move forward? That’s escalation. More commitment. More risk. Get hit by cars coming from the right.
Quit and move back? That’s admitting you stepped into something you can’t easily finish. Cars hit you from the left. Reputation squashed.
Stand still? The chicken looks more like a dead duck than a brave chicken taking on that big bad road.
So, the chicken starts dancing.
A step forward. A step back. A declaration. Then a revision. A ceasefire that isn’t. An ending that doesn’t end. Not because it doesn’t want to, but because it has no clean path out.
A world of spectators is gawking at a desperate chicken dancing out there in the middle of the road.
Allies, once expected to cross the road too, don’t want to become chicken soup. “This was your move. Your solitary avian road trip. We’ll wait this one out.”
Meanwhile, the meter runs. Weapons, logistics, deployments — burned through faster than planned because this wasn’t supposed to last. Stockpiles built for deterrence now consumed trying to reach a victory that never quite arrives. We’re chewing through the chicken feed.
And still, nearly eight weeks in, the chicken is still trying to cross the road. And this is no joke.
Which brings us back to the only question that matters now:
What was that chicken thinking when he decided to cross that road in the first place?
The chicken saw a threat. Heard some noise from the other side. Got nudged by a friend with feathers. And convinced itself that speed, force and noise of its own would clear the road fast. Roads are simple. You cross them. That’s what chickens do.
The next question is what wasn’t thought through:
What was the plan when Iran didn’t behave? When the region expanded instead of contained? When the global economy got pulled into it? When allies decided this was your crossing, not theirs? When Iran decided it wasn’t your road to cross in the first place?
Because from here, it doesn’t look like those questions had solid answers before stepping into the street.
It looks like the chicken saw a road and just assumed it could cross it, own it.
And now it’s pinned in the center divider, with traffic screaming past, making announcements of victory and how everything is under control.
We laugh at the original joke because it’s harmless. A chicken making a simple, thoughtless decision.
This real thing isn’t harmless.
This is what happens when something as serious as war is approached with the same casual assumption as a chicken joke, that the road will stay quiet, that the other side will cooperate, that the middle is as easy as a cool rest stop.
But the middle is always where the danger is.
And once you’re there, you don’t get to pretend you’ve already made it across.
You have to deal with the road as it actually is. Reality isn’t a joke.
Today, that road looks crowded, expensive, unpredictable, with flashing barriers blocking the way off.
The chicken never considered the middle before he leapt. And right now, the middle is exactly where we are — stuck.
Gary Horton is chairman of the College of the Canyons Foundation board. His “Full Speed to Port!” has appeared in The Signal since 2006. The opinions expressed in his column do not necessarily reflect the opinions of The Signal or its editorial board.
