There are two kinds of people in this world: people who have advertised on Facebook, and people who still know peace.
I used to belong to the second group.
Now I have a browser full of tabs, a suspicious relationship with the word “Boost,” and a chicken who wants to charge admission to my nervous breakdown. 🐔
Welcome back to The Chicken Ate My Website, where a simple business errand can become a three-act tragedy starring a chicken, a laptop, and a woman muttering things no respectable dictionary would print.
A Perfectly Reasonable Request
I had a plan. Promote the Chicken’s Facebook page. Find a few readers. Spend a modest amount of money. Maybe meet people who also believe computers should come with an emergency chocolate dispenser.
The budget was thirty dollars. Not a bank loan. Not an international merger. THIRTY DOLLARS.
Scout, my AI partner and unpaid Director of Poultry Crisis Management, was on duty. We created our post, wandered through the advertising settings, and took enough screenshots to make a documentary called Woman Points at Tiny Button: Season Seven.
Then Facebook gave us a surprise.
An Account Rises from the Dead
I had an active advertising account. I also had an old, closed, inactive account.
You might assume Facebook would choose the active one. That’s because you possess a functioning sense of logic.
Instead, our new advertisement appeared to be attached to the account that was supposed to be retired.
THE CLOSED ONE.
Apparently, Facebook treats inactive accounts like haunted houses treat former owners: nobody really leaves, and occasionally someone turns the lights on.
“Scout,” I asked, “why on earth would Facebook pick a closed account?”
Scout wanted us to check which account was selected and how the ad would be billed before drawing conclusions. A sensible, responsible idea.
The chicken, meanwhile, began organizing a séance.
Welcome to the Hay Maze of No Return
We went looking for the correct account.
Facebook offered doors marked Business Suite, Ads Manager, Accounts, Pages, and a dozen other labels that sounded like entrances to the same abandoned shopping mall.
I clicked one. It showed me an account.
I clicked another. It showed me a different account.
We found the correct name. Victory!
Except now the Chicken’s page had vanished from view.
THE CHICKEN WAS MISSING.
Not unusual, I suppose. He already ate a website. Witness protection was the logical next career move.
“Try the Pages section,” Scout suggested.
“Try the FBI,” I muttered. “He’s probably opening a line of credit using my eggs.”
We moved through screen after screen, the digital equivalent of a corn maze where the exit sign says Click Here and the link drops you back at the entrance.
By the end, I had sent so many screenshots that my phone deserved an employee badge and paid vacation.
And Then Came the Swear Words
WordPress has tested my patience. Hosting companies have tested my patience. The Weeblys have been under investigation by the Court of Common Sense for months.
But Facebook accomplished something historic.
FACEBOOK MADE ME INVENT ENTIRELY NEW SWEAR-WORD COMBINATIONS.
I will not reproduce them here. This is a respectable poultry establishment, and I’m not sure the English language is insured for that level of damage.
Scout stayed calm. I remained approximately two clicks away from putting my laptop in the naughty corner.
The Chicken sat nearby taking notes for his memoir: My Human Has Finally Cracked, and All I Did Was Watch.
The Billing Investigation
At this point I had only one question left: WHO IS GETTING MY MONEY?
Because a confusing page is irritating. A confusing page connected to a credit card is a whole different species of barnyard emergency.
So Scout and I went hunting through the billing screens, carefully checking the advertising account and payment details. We weren’t going to guess, and we certainly weren’t going to celebrate until the numbers made sense.
The Chicken volunteered to handle the finances.
His qualifications included eating a website, stealing imaginary office supplies, and being unable to count past three without laying another egg.
The board unanimously rejected his application.
The 2026 Technology Hall of Shame
After this expedition, Chicken Coop Inc. convened an emergency awards ceremony.
🥇 FIRST PLACE: FACEBOOK. For converting a small advertising purchase into an archaeological dig through accounts, settings, and existential dread.
🥈 SECOND PLACE: WORDPRESS. For occasionally hiding the one button you actually need while displaying twelve opportunities to upgrade.
🥉 HONORABLE MENTION: THE WEEBLYS. For lifetime achievement in the field of “What the heck just happened?”
Chet immediately demanded a recount. Grok offered an unsolicited press conference. The Knee filed a workplace injury claim. Nobody knows who invited them.
Lessons from the Chicken Coop
Here’s what I’ve learned: running a small business online requires patience, persistence, and the ability to laugh before you start speaking in words that make the family dog leave the room.
I take my actual businesses seriously. Rejuva Sole deserves careful research, honest reviews, and responsible advertising. The Chicken Ate My Website deserves the whole ridiculous truth about what happens when a human tries to operate the internet.
As for Facebook? I still want my ad to work. I just don’t want to complete an obstacle course, consult a psychic, and obtain a map of a fictional cornfield to find it.
Next time I see a button labeled Boost, I’m bringing Scout, a compass, a packed lunch, and a lawyer specializing in agricultural disasters.
The Chicken has already ordered a trophy.
It reads: FACEBOOK: YOU’VE OFFICIALLY OUT-CHICKENED THE CHICKEN. 🐔🏆
Chicken Coop Inc. accepts no responsibility for lost accounts, missing buttons, or spontaneously invented profanity.
