Miscellaneous thoughts with a chicken choking tossed in

Before I get to deep into my foray of wordsmith-ing, I hope I spelled "Miscellaneous" correct in my title heading. I made up a word in my first sentence, I know that because it has a big red squiggly line up underneath it warning me of impending doom. The word was/is "wordsmith" with "ing" thrown in to show action. Think of a Blacksmith with words as a medium rather than steel or iron. Note too that I am writing this today on my most ancient of laptops, two steps shy of ancient monks having to make their own paper and use the juice of fermented beets as ink.Yes, the keys are still sticking and its damping my "writing Jones" some. It's like writing this whole thing four times with all the sticky keys and run on words. I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to writing but I dang sure ain't the butter knife either. You do anything a whole lot and eventually it becomes second nature. Write the same thing four times because of sticking keys, and you have the desire too choke the life out of something cute.

Speaking of choking the life out of something cute, here's an excerpt from a book I wrote, titled "The Train Ride". It's concerning my time in College and an urban legend about how my college football teams name came to pass and choking a chicken. I thought you might like it and I'm going to lose my mind if these keysdontst op sticking....

From; "The Train Ride" (c) 2010-2013 by Jim Hall

Before I go further I must explain our team name, the Trojans. Troy University had been called the “Red Wave” for all the years up until the year before I had arrived. Our team had mirrored the Alabama Crimson Tide’s football program in every aspect. We ran the same offensive schemes and defensive schemes and it was well known that the one and only Bear Bryant and Charlie Bradshaw were long time best friends. It was rumored that their friendship extended back to the “Junction” days and The Bear had called Coach Bradshaw, and I quote, “The meanest son-of-a-bitch he had ever met;” documented in the autobiography of Paul W. “Bear” Bryant, and more in depth in “The Thin Thirty” by Shannon P. Ragland about Bradshaw’s days at the helm of Kentucky’s football program. I could attest to the out and out meanness of the man first hand, but I still respected him, concurring with Coach Bryant’s and Mr. Ragland’s assessments. In Alabama, Bear’s autobiography was the bestselling book just this side of the Bible. The Trojans remained the Red Wave until, according to local lore, a major prophylactic manufacturer had moved into town and made a major endowment (it’s what it’s called I swear) to the College. From that point forward, we were the Trojans. The year prior to my arrival the team sported a logo exactly duplicating the logo of said rubber company on the sides of the helmets worn by its participants. It must have been one hell of a donation as far as I could tell. Thanks to the powers that be, whoever they might have been, my years on the team we just had “TROY” painted on the sides of our helmets. I guess it was a good thing Kotex or a douche bag manufacturer had not made a donation to the school making the same mascot requirements…but I digress.

The aforementioned long jump landing pit had been prepared by Bubba One as a holding pen for the Game Cock he had purchased or stolen earlier that day. The pit itself was surrounded by chicken wire and the Game Rooster was brought in a bag and thrown into the pen. This was after Bubba One shook the sack with its irritated contents spilling out in what must have been a terrifying site for a male chicken or any other manner of fowl that day. Bubba One had managed to place a paper bull’s eye of sorts on the back of the Game Rooster and had concocted a great plan. It was amazing how the redneck mind worked and I had only hoped that Bubba One had not majored in Marketing as this was my chosen field. I did not want to compete with him for a job post graduation if this stunt worked. The idea was to have ten guys with “Chaws of Tobacco” surround the pit. The object was to have each man try to spit on the game rooster with tobacco spit and the one hitting the bull’s eye was declared the winner. He’d receive two free tickets to the upcoming football game with all the comforts afforded therein. The agitated Fighting Rooster was running for what he thought was his life (if chickens have a thought process, and, survival is one of those thoughts) all the while making it nearly impossible for anyone to hit said target and win. The charade went on for what seemed like an eternity with the crowd, at first, enjoying the festivities at least as much as spitting on a replica of our rivals mascot could deliver. But the mob grew restless quickly, as mobs usually do. What seemed to be a novel idea quickly became an exercise in the absurd based on the disapproving stares of the sorority girls. Every Greek lettered southern belle sported matched jerseys and color coordinated hair ribbons that day. It was their way of designating their collective yet individual affiliation according to what sorority they had pledged.

The show was getting old fast.

What happened next will never be forgotten by those in attendance and will be seared in my memory forever. Doc, our trainer and team Doctor, was a wild man from Louisiana and most likely insane. He had left the LSU Tiger organization by request of Coach Bradshaw and had flourished at Troy. To say he was a unique individual was like saying the Sistine Chapel had a neat painting on the ceiling. This guy was a complete loose cannon, always marching to his own drummer, but a brilliant doctor. I was standing with a glazed look on my face all the while watching the debacle that had become the Gamecock tobacco spitting contest. I almost jumped out of my skin when Doc came running by me, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Gamecocks must die!!” He cleared the hastily erected chicken wire fence with the ease of a high hurdler war whooping and grabbing the Game Rooster with one hand in what appeared to be one continuous motion. He then proceeded to swing the terrified chicken over his head with his forefinger locked tightly around the neck of the defiant Gamecock. He continued to scream, war whooping at the top of his lungs swinging the bird faster and faster all to the absolute horror of the sorority girls and the delight of every male in attendance, save for some of the guys in the band.

The next thing you know Doc snapped the head of the Gamecock off, sending its headless body flying into the crowd of horrified and fear frozen sorority girls. It was obvious to me that Doc had done this before at some point in his life and was no stranger to the procedure. The screams of the girls have never left my memory banks as I witnessed the melee that ensued. It was friggin awesome.

I must pause here to reflect on what I call “a learning opportunity.” Over the years I have heard the term “he/she/it was/is running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” I learned firsthand what that particular phrase meant and I considered myself an eye witness expert from “Pep Rally” day forward. I could, if needed, be called as a professional witness to any headless chicken activities or any occasion where a headless chicken might have reeked it’s mindless terror on an unsuspecting crowd regardless of how large or small it (the crowd or the chicken) might have been. I could also say to any person (usually a mother talking about a small child) using the phrase casually, “Nah, I’ve seen a chicken with its head cut off and what it can do. Your kid is, at best, running around like a chicken with its head firmly attached and not causing nearly as much damage.” I had acquired what one might consider a Doctorate in headless chicken, with a specific emphasis on Gamecock. I realized then I had been in Alabama way too long and needed to get back to the big city, sooner rather than later.

The Gamecock went wild and headless throughout the crowd spewing blood out of its neck and clawing everything in its path. I have never witnessed a bigger riotous stampede, sorority girls running over each other (affiliations be damned, it was every man/woman for themselves) and band members scattering like marbles dropped on a hardwood floor. It was chaos akin to the final scene in Animal House where the Delta’s wreak havoc on the homecoming parade benefiting Faber College. There were passed out sorority girls with chicken blood covering their clothing laying everywhere from the stampede of Greeks avoiding the crazed and headless fighting rooster. Some girls fainted from what they had just witnessed, as delicate constitutions forbid witnessing animal sacrifice. I had become light headed with awe and reverence purely from the audacity of what Doc had just done. It was incredible to see and I am a better man for having been privileged to witness it. This was not, in any way, akin to Texas A&M’s stealing of The University of Texas’ mascot “BEVO” a massive Longhorn Steer. The story goes that A&M stole then barbequed Bevo before the much anticipated football game out of hatred for its interstate rival. It was intended to “fire up” the Aggies football team for the big game but had quite the opposite effect. Texas beat A&M like “it owed them money.” This was one small chicken and a couple a thousand people to feed. Snapping its head off was the right thing to do, in retrospect, as two legs, two wings, two thighs and two breasts were not going to satisfy this shocked and hungry crowd.

I, and the entire football team, stood in awe as the events unfolded before us. I even had to ask the co-captain standing next to me if what I had witnessed actually happened. It was as amazing a scene as I had ever witnessed in my life up to that point. The ASPCA got wind of it almost immediately and I am certain that the college paid a hefty fine with a promise of someone’s head having to roll (namely Doc’s). Doc got fired for that stunt and he immediately disappeared from campus. The newspapers showed up wanting an explanation of the events and it indeed made the national news. I guess the College’s condom fund must have gotten raided to cover the fines laid down by the Government for that stunt.

Doc went back to LSU and remained there until he retired. Over the years I would see him on TV, standing on the sidelines or attending to the injured warriors on the gridiron. Every time I saw him I laughed at his audacity and the balls that man possessed. He had single handedly produced a cock that indeed needed covering. This time it was covered with Troy University’s endowment money instead of rubber.

I told you you'd like it, didn't I?