Johnson Tisdale, his mouth full of turnip greens, moans in ecstasy, as he rears back in his CEO Lay-Z-Boy recliner at Millwood and points to a sign over the front door. The sign says “Pray for rain.”  It’s so dry at Millwood, the corn looks like toothpicks with tassels and you have to prime a McClary before they can sweat. Perspiration from a McClary has magic powers. If you can get one to sweat in your gas tank you can get 100 miles to the gallon.

I suggested Johnson put up a sign that says, “Pray for chickens.” The store that replaced an historic landmark called S.A. Guerry and Sons is now an “Appetite Boutique.” Along with yodeling cucumbers and butterflies that shudder, you can buy a cell phone that operates on butane gas. Johnson has added vittles to his repertoire at Millwood.

Unlike the Tisdales, McClarys and Strongs, chickens are an endangered species. They are not disappearing because of global warming; the environment is not a factor. Any chicken that lives next door to a Tisdale considers itself blessed.

The chickens at Millwood don’t suffer from lack of affection. There are two roosters for every hen at Millwood. It’s Johnson Tisdale’s menu that is responsible for all those chickens winding up in the obituary column. Of the Squat Rock Gazette, a publication devoted to the health and well being of chickens in Millwood, Central and Cedar Swamp. In the last edition, there was an editorial called “Sex and the Desperate Egg Layers,” which was a ringing condemnation of Johnson Tisdale, who features chickens on his menu every day. Fried chicken, BBQ chicken, baked chicken, chicken pot pie, chicken pileau, chicken and dumplings, scrambled chicken and for dessert, there’s a chocolate covered drumstick with pimento cheese ice cream on a bed of boiled okra.
Marty Easler took one bite and his taste buds jumped out of his mouth and climbed a tree.

There are other exotic dishes available at Johnson’s “Appetite Boutique;” liver and onion snow cones, French fries dipped in Viagra, gas free pork and beans, BBQ juicy fruit hog knees, chittlins fried in Epson salt and catfish boiled peanuts casserole.

Because Johnson’s establishment has only one restroom, reservations are required if you plan to have chittlins boiled in Epson salt. Many believe the arrival of indoor plumbing at Millwood led to the decline of Millwood as a world power. Before the ceramic necessity, the citizens of Millwood used the woods, which led to one of mankind’s greatest discovery, a tree that flushes.

Meanwhile Johnson Tisdale needs your help. He needs your donations so he can hire Billy Jenkinson, Sam Floyd and LeGrand Carraway to represent him in what the chickens call cruel and unusual punishment. The chickens are suing every pine tree, hunting dog, tombstone and every pothole and if it ever rains at Millwood, they will put every raindrop in jail before it hits the ground. The chickens will sue every wrinkle, liver spot, ingrown toenail, elbow grease and the blackheads in your nose. However, the good people of Millwood will be allowed to keep their goods looks and superior intelligence.

The female population at Millwood can only be described as hot. One drop of their blood will air condition the courthouse. The only time they ever heard a whistle was just before they got run over by a train.

Johnson Tisdale is also selling contraceptives for women. It’s a big patch with bold letters that say, “keep your cotton pickin’ hands off me!”

You are invited to make reservations to dine at Johnson Tisdale’s international house of fried okra on the Black River. Remember to wear your blue denim tuxedo and if the ladies wear a flour sack, make sure it says 50 pounds in the back and self-rising on the front. Johnson doesn’t accept Williamsburg County checks, unless you have a letter of introduction from Billy Graham and references from three of the 12 disciples. Bon Appétit!