[Posted in 2 parts -- combined. BIG]
I know what you're asking yourselves.  What kind of post deserves a
Bullwinkle-style title?  (Hey, Rocky, watch me pull some gravy out of my
hat) Well read on and become enlightened.
 
It all started when I decided to try my hand at a batch of the now famous
Chicken Gravy provided to us by the illustrious Bob Church.  After reading
the numerous accolades posted on the FML by seemingly competent FML'rs and
possessing a strong desire to do what's best for those spoiled-rotten,
manipulative, mind-controlling little furrbrats I call my ferrets, I had a
high confidence level that I could accomplish this task.  The fact that I
can't come within 50 feet of a kitchen without starting at least a small
grease fire did not dissuade me in the least.  So I set about this little
project with an optimism not usually found in an owner of these little poop
factories.  Little did I know this undertaking would result in a disaster
rivalled only by the sinking of the Titanic, only without the iceberg...or
the ocean...or the ship...or Leonardo...okay, so maybe it wasn't that bad.
But it was at least as bad as the events precipitating and immediately
following the situation that occurs when you get up in the middle of the
night to go to the bathroom and stub your pinky toe on the coffee table,
especially when the coffee table is not on your way to the bathroom.
 
I think the whole think went wrong right at the beginning, somewhere right
around the time I decided to take a few shortcuts.  Since this seems to be
the case with so many other of my little projects, I've decided I need to
review the timing of my shortcuts.  I figure I need to start taking my
shortcuts either sooner or later in the process, so as not to coincide
with the time that things begin to go wrong.  Anyway, I digress.  This
particular shortcut began as I was reading the ingredients of this
concoction.  Right away I noticed that two of the ingredients came directly
from chickens: obviously the chicken, and just as obviously the eggshells.
Whereupon I came up with the brilliant idea, for the sake saving a wee bit
of effort, to take a jaunt down to the nearest chicken ranch (get your
minds out of the gutter, I live in Washington, not Nevada) and pick up a
chicken that was about to lay eggs, thereby killing two birds with one
stone, no pun intended.  I would then have two of the ingredients
conveniently contained in the same feathery bag of skin.  I even toyed
with the idea of first force-feeding the chicken the other ingredients in
the formula, but since my goal was to save time and effort, I decided not
to go for the advanced degree in chicken wrestling.
 
Perhaps one of the biggest mistakes I made during this little adventure was
deciding to do some midnight shopping with a five-finger discount for this
chicken.  It wasn't because I have a predisposition towards larceny nor was
it a desire to save money.  I merely figured that my thieving ferrets
would prefer the taste of a purloined chicken over that of a legitimately
purchased one.  Let me tell you, I highly recommend against this course of
action.  I found that chicken farmers become quite testy when they discover
a figure in black exiting the coop at a high rate of speed, with squawking
chicken in hand.  I also found that rock salt stings like you wouldn't
believe and is very detrimental the health of one's backside.  It was quite
a feat driving home with my ill-gotten gain in the trunk while driving in a
standing position.  I'm glad my Bug has a sunroof.
 
Upon returning home, and after applying a liberal dose of ice to my
distressed derriere, I set about the dirty deed of butchering the dread
beast.  I didn't think it would be a big deal.  As a youth, I used to hunt
prairie chickens on the plains of Eastern Montana and I figured a chicken
was a chicken.  However, there was one fact that I had not anticipated.
Domesticated chickens, due to their close proximity to man, have learned to
understand Human language.  You see, up to this point, the chicken had been
relatively calm, although it was understandably perturbed at first, being
brought out of deep sleep and shoved into the trunk of a Bug.  But once I
got the fowl home, it settled down and seemed quite at home on my kitchen
counter.  It even tried to make friends with an oven mitt which was
ingeniously designed to look like a chicken.
 
But when I pulled out the butcher knife and said, "Now it's time to make
you into ferret food", I caught the flicker of understanding in the bird's
eyes a split second before it took off in a flurry of feathers and chicken
poop.  I never thought a chicken could move that fast.  That chicken was
flapping all around the apartment, pumping his wings for all it was worth I
immediately gave chase, not wanting the hard work and pain I went through
to get the foul fowl to go to waste.  Through the living room, into the
bedroom, across the bed, into the bathroom and through the kitchen I chased
the panicked bird.  In his haste to escape the butcher block, this chicken
was performing aviation maneuvers that would have made the most daring
stunt pilot jealous.  Finally, I thought I had it.  But at the last minute
it dashed out the living room window, leaving me with nothing but a handful
of feathers.
 
As I looked out the window after the hastilly retreating chicken, I heard
a voice, "You can't keep chickens in your apartment!" I looked down, there
was my landlord.  She had seen the chicken fly out of my window.  Uh-oh!
Through some quick thinking and fast talking, I managed to convince her
that I wasn't keeping a chicken in my apartment, it was an infestation of
chickens.  (Fortunately, my landlord is not too bright)  This was something
I would later come to regret when the Orkin man showed up at my apartment
to spray for chickens.
 
I turned back into my apartment and surveyed the damage.  It was just like
my mom used to say about my room when I was a kid, it looked like a tornado
had hit the place.  Lamps knocked over, chairs overturned, pictures knocked
off the walls and worst of all, feathers and chicken poop all over.  So I
set about cleaning the place.  After that arduous task was complete I sat
down to regroup.  I wasn't about to give up yet.  I figured since the live
chicken thing didn't work, I would break down and just go the store and buy
an already dead chicken from the meat section and some eggs.  I picked out
a pleasantly plump fryer and a half dozen eggs and headed home.
 
When I returned home, I was faced with another dilemma.  Not having a
meat grinder like so many have recommended, I had no way of processing
the bones.  But, being the ingenious person I am, I quickly came up with
a solution.  I would just use the meat tenderizing mallet to pound the
bones flat.  And I figured I could do it while they were still inside the
chicken.  But as I held the puny mallet in my hand, it seemed woefully
inadequate for the job.  So I went to my trusty toolbox and pulled out a
hammer.  This too did not seem adequate for the job.  So I pulled out the
big guns, the 10 pound sledge hammer.  Yes, this seemed like it would do
the job nicely.
 
Before I started in on the chicken, though, I had to don some protective
gear.  You see, I have a fear of germs, and salmonellas, and other
nastinesses that can reside on chickens (did you ever see that episode of
the X-Files, eeeeeeeeeeewwwww!).  But not possessing an apron or anything
of that nature, I instead wrapped my entire body with Saran wrap.  Not a
inch was left exposed to the threat of chicken nastinesses.  Then I donned
my safety goggles and prepared to pound away.  But then it occurred to me,
bashing and mutilating the carcass of a chicken can't be a pretty sight.  I
decided that closing my eyes would be the best way to avoid such a gruesome
sight.  So eyes closed, I proceeded to pound away.  And pound I did.  I
beat that chicken like the proverbial red-headed stepchild.  I pounded and
pounded and pounded with the sledge hammer until I was breathing heavy from
the exertion.  I pounded until I was sure the bones were finely powdered,
then I pounded some more.
 
When I finally ceased pounding, I opened my eyes and was flabbergasted at
the sight I beheld.  This dead chicken had made more of a mess then the
live chicken had!  There was chicken everywhere.  Chicken guts on the
walls, pieces parts on the ceiling, bits of skin on the kitchen cabinets,
blood on the floor.  I realized maybe I had pounded a little too
vehemently.  It was at about this time the realization came to me that when
the temperature outside is 85 degrees and one lives in an apartment without
air conditioning, one should not wrap one's body entirely in Saran wrap and
then exert oneself.  Then came the realization that the previous
realization came too late because I passed out from the heat.
 
When I came to, I was facing an intricate pattern of blood and chicken
parts on the wall.  In my dazed condition, I could only think of two things
to do: either get high and marvel at the psychedelic patterns or be a
soothsayer and divine the future from the chicken guts.  But since I don't
do drugs and I have never said any sooths, I waited until I came to my
senses and decided to just clean the mess up.  But before I could start,
someone started banging on my door.  "What's all that pounding going on in
there!"  It was the landlord again.  Being somewhat still weak and dazed I
answered the door.  The landlord was aghast when she saw me, wrapped in
Saran wrap, plastered with chicken parts.  She demanded to know what was
going on.  I convinced her that the chickens infesting my apartment were
the rare Brazilian Exploding chickens and one just exploded in my kitchen.
That seemed to satisfy her.  As I said before, she's not too bright.  She
didn't even question what chickens from Brazil were doing in the Pacific
Northwest.  I went back in to clean the apartment again.
 
And thus ended my career as a chicken gravy maker.  I had been shot at.  I
had a close encounter of the feathered kind.  And I had to completely clean
my apartment twice, which was twice more than it usually gets cleaned.  I
realized that this recipe was designed to cause you no end of trouble not
matter how you went about it.  I just scrambled the eggs I had bought and
sat in front of the TV to forget my woes.  I figure I if my ferrets want
some chicken gravy, they can bloody well make it themselves.
 
Of course, I blame Bob Church entirely for this episode.  Obviously if it
wasn't for him posting this diabolical recipe, I would not have gotten
myself into this predicament.  I can just see him sitting in front of his
Mac, the moniter lighting his face with a demonic glow, offsetting the evil
glint in his eyes, typing madly, cackling hysterically, thinking, "I'm
gonna mess up someone real good with this post."  Then, with much glee, he
presses the "send" button, sits back, and anxiously awaits the chaos he
knows it will cause.  I can only imagine how many other people were caught
in this devious trap, but were too embarassed to say anything.  I decided
to go public to expose Mr. Church for what he really is and to prevent
other people from being taken in by his seemingly innocent posts.  Next
time, maybe I'll try Edward's LUMPS.  That seems a much more benign recipe.
 
Now all of this is behind me and I'm not one to hold a grudge.  However, I
anxiously await Bob Church's next visit to the Seattle area.
 
May your gravy be not fraught with difficulties,
Limejello & The Weezils of Doom
http://home1.gte.net/wrenched
[Posted in FML issue 2747]