Greasy Chicken Bones

There were two of us, and like me, the other guy had no scruples and was delightful company. Along with several hundred other students, we rode the “Victory Train” from Oxford, Mississippi, to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, to witness the annual gridiron spectacle between the Ole Miss Rebels and the Louisiana State University Tigers. Anyone who has ever attended this event knows there are no limits to the mutual animosity shared by the schools’ students and alumni.

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Midway of our journey, we were served boxed lunches of fried chicken, and the conductor told us to throw all leftovers in the trashcans at the rear of each car. When we crossed the line into enemy territory, bellicose Tiger fans harassed us at every railroad crossing. My unscrupulous pal and I took umbrage at this, and endured it until reaching the outer limits of Baton Rouge, where the tracks were lined with thousands of snarling, sullen-faced, flag-waving Louisianans. We could take no more. We needed ammunition — and what better to defeat the enemy with than greasy chicken bones? The two of us sorted through one trashcan, separating bones from the other refuse and putting them into another can. We planned to stand between two train cars and hurl the bones on the rabid Cajuns at the next crossing.

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Hallelujah! Approaching the next intersection, we saw a shiny convertible, its front bumper inches from the tracks, occupied by the LSU cheerleading squad, waving flags and pompoms. Grasping our chicken bones can, we prepared to launch the salvo as the train neared the crossing. When we were squarely in front of the convertible, we let fly. I cannot begin to describe how accurate we were! The entire greasy bombardment landed on the hood, slid over the windshield and all over the faces, hair, clothing and laps of the auto’s occupants. Agape, they stared first in shocked astonishment at each other and then in pure teeth-clenching hatred at the passing trainload of pointing, hooting, guffawing Rebel fans. Everything went our way that glorious day. Standing along the opposing sideline, the disheveled, Crisco-bedaubed LSU cheerleaders screamed their lungs out to no avail, as our team trounced the stripes off the Tigers. The roar was deafening when the final gun sounded and the scoreboard announced to the whole world that the visitors were victorious. But hell hath no fury like cheerleaders’ wrath. For a whole year, the entire LSU student body boiled in anger and vowed revenge at the next match, to be held on the Ole Miss campus. When the big day arrived, the other side of the stadium was packed with snarling, clawing, salivating tigers, united in grim determination as their team marched relentlessly up and down the field, leaving the Ole Miss eleven in disarray. Humiliated and defeated, our cheerleaders met theirs afterwards to congratulate them on the lop-sided victory. As they parted, the Tiger cheering squad captain handed Ole Miss’ cheer captain a neatly wrapped consolation prize. What was in it? Greasy chicken bones.

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