“You’ve obviously never spent an honest day’s labor mining chickens in your life.  Now me, I worked my ass off in the Kentucky chicken mines for thirty years in order to provide for my family,” the old man scowled.

“Sounds like odd work,” smirked the young man sitting nearby.

“What’s that, sonny?”

“Hard work.  It sounds like hard work.”

“Hell yes it was hard work.  It’s not like digging for gold or diamonds.  Chickens are fragile.  No blasting, no pneumatic drills.  All hand work, the old fashioned way.  And it’s back-breaking work, too.  I mean, think about it – two ton of ore typically only yields about three and a half chickens.”

“So, they’re full grown chickens then, not eggs?”

“Of course they’re full grown chickens, that’s why they call it chicken mining.”

“So then, where do eggs come from?”

“From chickens.  What are you, daft?”

“No, I just… but if eggs come from chickens and chickens come from eggs, where did the first chicken come from?”

“From a chicken mine.  Good Lord, son, it ain’t that difficult.”