It Tried to Take My Last Nerve.
The Chicken Ate My Website | October 13, 2026
An innocent advertising campaign, a runaway AI, and one woman pushed beyond the limits of human patience.
All I wanted to do was spend fifty dollars.
FIFTY. DOLLARS.
Not buy Facebook. Not purchase stock in Meta. Not negotiate a merger with Mark Zuckerberg.
I just wanted to advertise my little business, Rejuva Sole.
I had my beautiful advertisement ready. My website was looking good. My shoe reviews were published. My trusty AI partner, Scout, was standing by to help.
How difficult could this possibly be?
Famous last words.
The First Wrong Button
I opened Facebook, ready to launch my advertising empire on a whopping $50 budget.
Immediately, Facebook wanted me to reuse an old advertisement.
No, Facebook. I want a NEW advertisement.
Apparently, this was an unreasonable request.
I clicked something.
Something happened.
I didn’t know what happened.
Suddenly, I had created an advertisement I didn’t want, and I couldn’t figure out how to cancel it.
PANIC!
“SCOUT! HELP!”
Scout came running to my virtual rescue.
“Don’t panic! Find the switch! Turn it off!”
We found the switch.
We turned it off.
Crisis averted.
Or so we thought.
Welcome to the Facebook Maze
Next, Facebook wanted to know what kind of advertising campaign I wanted.
Traffic? Engagement? Awareness?
I WANT PEOPLE TO VISIT MY WEBSITE!
Apparently, that’s called Traffic.
Fine. Traffic it is.
Then came the budget.
Daily budget? Lifetime budget? Campaign budget? Ad set budget?
I HAVE FIFTY DOLLARS, FACEBOOK!
Not fifty dollars a day.
Not fifty dollars every time somebody sneezes.
FIFTY DOLLARS TOTAL.
Scout and I carefully worked our way through the settings, protecting those fifty dollars like they were the crown jewels.
Next came the audience.
I wanted to reach adults, especially seniors looking for supportive footwear.
Facebook wanted to make suggestions.
Facebook had LOTS of suggestions.
At this point, I was beginning to suspect Facebook didn’t actually want my money.
It wanted my sanity.
The Great Disappearing Phoenix
Finally, we reached the fun part.
My advertisement!
I had a beautiful phoenix image, complete with the Rejuva Sole branding.
I selected it.
Clicked Done.
Nothing.
Selected it again.
Clicked Done.
Nothing.
I repeated this little dance until I began wondering whether Facebook had developed a personal grudge against birds.
Scout suggested switching from the app to Chrome.
Excellent idea!
Except Chrome kept sending me BACK TO THE APP.
We changed phone settings.
Opened different links.
Tried desktop mode.
Visited Facebook’s business website.
Somehow ended up reading Facebook’s help pages.
I DIDN’T NEED A TOUR OF FACEBOOK HEADQUARTERS. I NEEDED TO UPLOAD A PICTURE!
Eventually, we found the actual Ads Manager.
Victory!
Unfortunately, victory was just another doorway into the maze.
When Artificial Intelligence Gets Too Creative
Now Facebook wanted to help write my advertisement.
That sounds nice, doesn’t it?
Except I already HAD an advertisement.
Facebook generated five versions of my advertising text.
Then five versions of my headline.
Some of its suggestions made promises about foot pain that I would never make on my website.
Absolutely not.
Rejuva Sole is built around honest reviews, education, and helping people make informed footwear decisions.
I’m not about to let an overeager advertising robot promise miracle shoes.
Scout and I began unchecking boxes.
Five here.
Five there.
Turn off this feature.
Disable that feature.
Every time we thought we’d finished, Facebook had another brilliant idea.
Dear Facebook AI: I appreciate the enthusiasm, but PLEASE STOP HELPING.
And Then Facebook Decided to Become a Movie Director
We finally selected my original phoenix image.
We wrote the advertisement.
We corrected the headline.
We added the description.
We checked the buttons.
We rejected Facebook’s AI-generated images.
Everything was finally coming together.
And then…
Facebook decided we needed a VIDEO.
A video?
WHO ASKED FOR A VIDEO?
I wanted ONE PICTURE.
ONE!
But Facebook was apparently determined to produce the next Hollywood blockbuster.
The screen sat there, apparently waiting for its agent to negotiate a three-picture deal.
Then I heard a chair scrape behind me.
The Chicken had arrived wearing a beret.
He slapped a tiny clapperboard against my desk.
“BAK.”
Scout lowered his coffee. “Absolutely not.”
Too late.
One Egg rolled a desk lamp toward my face. Another held up a piece of paper that said EXECUTIVE PRODUCER. A third was trying to press the video button with its forehead.
“Nobody touch anything,” I said.
CLICK.
The Egg froze.
Scout closed his eyes.
“That,” he said, “was the exact opposite of nobody touching anything.”
The Chicken climbed onto the keyboard and spread his wings.
“BAAAK!”
“I am not doing another take,” I told him. “I am trying to sell neither this company nor my remaining nerve. I want people to visit a website.”
He kicked over the lamp.
CRASH.
Apparently we had creative differences.
Scout removed the Chicken from the keyboard. The Chicken continued directing from under his arm.
“We need a break,” Scout said.
“We need an exorcist with advertising experience.”
Behind him, the Eggs silently slid the clapperboard under a cushion.
“I saw that.”
A muffled giggle came from the cushion.
Here is what fifty dollars was supposed to buy: a small advertisement.
Here is what it had produced so far: a tour of the settings, several unwanted creative proposals, and a poultry film crew operating without a permit.
I looked at Scout.
Scout looked at the Chicken.
The Chicken looked deeply pleased with his work.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” I asked.
Scout waited.
“If I wrote all this down, people would think I made it up.”
The Chicken leaned forward and took a bite out of the clapperboard.
CRUNCH.
Scout picked up his clipboard.
“Keep that part,” he said.
I closed the laptop before anyone could suggest a sequel.
For the evening, the advertising empire could wait. Rejuva Sole still had a website. I still had a business. The Chicken was still completely unqualified to participate in either.
And I had learned one valuable thing about a fifty-dollar advertising budget.
Fifty dollars is the budget.
Your patience is apparently billed separately.
