Gordon Robinson | Kentucky Fried Circus

What a preckeh dung a KFC last Wednesday!

The franchise announced that, celebrating its 50th anniversary in Jamaica, it would offer two extra pieces of fried cholesterol to anyone purchasing what it incongruously called a “Big Deal”.

KFC followers lined up island wide from 5.00a.m. When doors opened, hordes stormed the stores to get free arterial plaque. Pandemonium ensued. People were hustled; bustled; and ruffled as security swam like salmon trying to stem disorder. Jamaican indiscipline at its utmost was on display.

I know one group that wasn’t excited to join the free-for-all. Who? Why, chickens of course! As they learned of the promotion they hastened to make themselves small to avoid selection as featured guests. But safety from one predator can mean peril from another as Rhythm and Blues giant Louis Jordan’s 1956 hit explains:

One night farmer Brown was takin’ the air.

He locked up the barnyard with the greatest of care.

Out in the henhouse, somethin’ stirred

When he hollered “Who’s there?”,

this is what he heard

There ain’t nobody here but us chickens

There ain’t nobody here at all

so quiet yourself, and stop that fuss.

There ain’t nobody here but us.

We chickens tryin’ to sleep and you bust in

And hobble hobble hobble hobble with your chin.

Even in chicken community, whichever way yu tu’n, macca jook yu! I wonder what would be in farmer’s henhouse ensuring his share before frying begins? Faced with multiple threats chickens (or imposters) will argue their way out. They remembered KFC’s promotion. They’d have to replace depleted stocks.

Tomorrow is a busy day.

We got things to do; we got eggs to lay

We got ground to dig and worms to scratch

It takes a lot of settin’ getting’ chicks to hatch!

For me, KFC’s fiasco highlighted three issues none of which requires disparaging Jamaican indiscipline.

Firstly, KFC was the big winner. The free publicity, including in this column, from the debacle is priceless. Secondly, spare a thought for staff that must’ve been stretched to breaking. I hope they got danger pay.

Most importantly, that Jamaicans were prepared to go to extremes for two pieces of free fried chicken proves real life economy is about as healthy as KFC regulars. I know Jamaicans love freeness. But Grand Gala is free. This doesn’t happen there. The difference is this involved food. Obviously, buying food isn’t as affordable as earlier.

The fried fracas reminded me of one of Haemorrhoid’s Shaggy Dog Tales. They always circled several mulberry bushes before ending in agonizing anticlimax followed by Haemorrhoid’s loud guffaws. They were always tedious so require intense editing. You can thank me later.

Growing up in New York City, Ted knew not farming. But he knew there was more to life than big city crowds and noise. He yearned for open spaces and a chance to work the land.

One day, Ted woke up, dressed and left his cramped apartment depressed. He decided enough was enough!

He cancelled his lease, scraped together every last dime and moved to a small farming town. He bought a small parcel of land, 3 hens, 4 cocks and enough feed to last until Spring. Ted became Farmer Ted.

Farmer Ted cared for his animals; tended the fields; and steadily increased his land size. One day Ted was looking for eggs and found a newly hatched baby chick. Farmer Ted was the first thing that Chick saw. Ted remembered how baby goslings imprint on the first thing they see. He imagined the same was true of chickens.

So he kept the chick and named it Molly. Ted treated Molly like a pet. They were inseparable. Molly followed Ted everywhere. Ted ensured Molly got the best of everything.

Two years later, Molly fell ill. The symptoms were dire. Ted had to return to NYC. He took Molly to a facility with Harvard-educated veterinarians and animal psychologists. Ted waited, distraught, in the lobby. An animal psychologist saw Ted and asked “What’s wrong?”

Ted explained. The psychologist took him for a walk. As they were seated outside drinking coffee, Molly, who miraculously recovered, dashed through the hospital door towards them. Suddenly, instead of returning to Farmer Ted, she went racing off looking for worms.

Ted was inconsolable. He asked the Psychologist: “But Molly...was imprinted on me. Why’d she do this?”

“Oh, chickens don’t imprint. That’s a common misconception.” the psychologist replied.

Farmer Ted added “But, she loved me; followed me everywhere; even started towards us a minute ago. Why’d a chicken cross the road?”

“Simple,” replied the psychologist, “to get to the other side.”

I’m sure you know the old joke feeding Haemorrhoid’s beloved anti-climax. Here’s a simpler more advanced version:

Q: How did the chicken with no legs cross the road?

A: In a KFC bucket.

Peace and Love.

Gordon Robinson is an attorney-at-law. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.co