Emeril Jones and the three legged chicken

Now Emeril never considered himself a showman but when God smiled down on him one day with a very special gift, he could hardly resist the calling. Emeril was born in a tarpaper shack to the toothless parents of 12 other brothers and sisters on the outskirts of the smallest town in Pawhuska county. There wasn’t much special about Emeril or his upbringing aside from what was considered “normal” in that part of the world. He did have a certain affinity with pigs and he did hold the distance record for luggy spittin’, but this hardly made Emeril unique.

A man of constant optimism and good will, the kind only dim wittedness could supply, Emeril lived his whole life within 10 miles of that little town in Pawhuska County. He would often say “Twernt nothin’ outside this valley that God nor me got a bit a use fer”. Whether that’s true or not, the reverse (till now) was most certainly true.

It happened one day, as Emeril was out feeding the goats, pigs and chickens. As he was leaning against the fence, tossing left over beans and rice to the small flock, his eyes fixed on the gray barred hen he got at the local auction. Its gait seemed odd. Once Emeril got a fix on exactly what was amiss a look of awe, amazement and just a pinch of disgust came over him. Not completely unlike the look he got upon lifting the veil of his bride some 5 years ago, but that’s another story. This chicken was odd indeed. It had three legs.

Emeril had seen plenty of chickens in his day. He had always raised them, both as a child and an adult. For one summer he worked for Tyson chicken farms as a sexer. It paid well enough but he finally quit after months of chicken fornication jokes directed at him at the local tavern got to be too much for him. Even with all the chickens he’d seen in his life, he’d never seen anything like this before.

Emeril’s first thought was to kill it before it passed the trait on to its chicks. He’d plan to take a hen today for dinner anyway and with the little misses not so little anymore; he thought the extra drumstick would come in handy. So off to the shed to fetch the tools to do the job he went. Thankfully for our story this walk wasn’t a short one. For in the time it took him to cross the 2 fences and pasture he had realized that this chicken might just be worth more than an extra helping for the wife.

Emeril set to work immediately on trying to come up with a plan that would turn this chicken into three-legged gold. As this was no ordinary situation the deep thinking atmosphere of the fishin’ hole was called for. In short order the poles, tackle and cooler were thrown into the back of the old Ford pickup. Shrill cries erupted from the house as clouds of red dust blew back from Emeril’s truck racing down the washboard dirt drive towards his future. Turning into a field the truck quickly climbed a hill and slid to a stop near a circular farm pond. In no time he was set at the side of the pond, beer in hand contemplating his future as the night crawler who’s future had passed hung from a hook 10 feet from the shore.

Thoughts had never come easy to Emeril and this was no exception. He found it hard to think past what he had always known chickens for, meat and eggs. He doubted that there was any money in a three-legged chicken laying eggs and he began to ruminate on the idea of becoming the new “Cornell”. “To hell with that Cornell bizness…I’ll be the three-legged General!” he thought. Dreams of the three-drumstick value meal filled his head as he sat fingering the neck of his beer. It didn’t take long before Emeril realized that this plan would require a huge number of three-legged chickens and all he had was the one. On top of that the height of Emeril’s cooking skills was a fried bologna sandwich. He would be hard pressed to even name 13 herbs and spices much less know what to do with them. Disappointed with the sudden loss of his chicken empire he settled back down to think over the situation. Lost in the unfamiliar territory of thought Emeril’s eyes fixed on the bobber dancing on the surface of the water.

If you know bass you know how they take bait, opening their mouth suddenly just out of reach, creating a vacuum that sucks the victim of their hunger deep into their throat. Well the vacuum of Emeril’s mind was hungry and as that bobber plunged under the water it bit on an idea. One that was sure to make him famous and keep his wife happy in the process. That three-legged chicken would become a star in Hollywood.
Emeril had never had a thought like this. The whole plan birthed in fullness in his mind. Everything he needed to do to make this a reality. A sense of destiny, of purpose filled him. He raced to his truck leaving behind rod and beer, speeding off down the hill and towards town. The faster he drove, the closer to town he got the lighter the load he felt.

The next few hours were a blur to Emeril. He raced from place to place laying the foundation for his waltz with destiny. When all was complete he returned to the farm to collect both his future and his past.

Emeril pulled into his gate and headed down the long drive to his old home, for he was driving his new one. He had traded the farm all 80 acres, the house, barn, animals and collection of soon to be collectable used cars for it. A 22’ Apache Sunchaser motor home complete with kitchen, TV, sleeping for 6 and bathroom. This RV and the $5000 in cash he got in trade was to take him the chicken and the Missus to Hollywood. A one way trip to their future.

As he was pulling up to the house the door opened. A lumbering hulk in a flowered potato sack dress emerged onto the porch. A questioning scowl contorted her bloated face. A toothless snarl aimed directly at him as he pulled to a stop in front of her. Emeril leapt from the cab yelling, “Babycakes, our ships come in. You just wait right thar. I got sumpim ta show ya”. He raced to the chicken yard to collect his prize. The flowered mass shambled across the porch watching Emeril excitedly leaping over the field.

Racing back with the gray barred hen under his arm. Emeril held it out in both hands towards his scowling wife. His tongue unable to keep up with the story that spilled from his mouth. Arms flailing in grandiose motions as he described his plan. Telling of their future in Hollywood, of the value of this bird and how he has financed their future. After his excited story was through he stood arms outstretched offering up the bird as proof of their newfound fortunes. Grinning from ear to ear he stood before the massive woman, shaking in anticipation of his own future. It was then that time seemed to slow down, almost stand still. As both sets of eyes watched that third leg swing down then drop off. Emeril’s eyes widening as he saw what was in reality a forked stick covered in droppings and feathers fall silently from the bird. His future lay on the red dirt at his feet. The hen let out a quite series of clucks as Emeril slowly lifted his eyes to meet the glare of his wife.

In a way, that chicken did make Emeril famous. Within the week stories of the dead man found thrown through the window of an Apache Sunchaser motor home with a chicken stuffed up his backside made it around the world. As it turns out, Emeril was able to provide for his wife as well. The J.P. Slockum correctional institute for women was quite to her liking. All you can eat and loose fitting clothing was all she ever longed for and she would have that for the rest of her life. And a valley in a county that no one had ever heard of was most certainly now on the map.