On any given day my friend Lane Pittard’s mind is more full of sh*t than a port-a-potty at the end of little league baseball season. This is not to lodge a complaint in any form or fashion—it’s some brilliant sh*t! He harbors some deeply felt beliefs.

However there is now one particular belief of his that I am now prepared to contest. In case you are unaware, he is a Baconist—bacon worshiper.

It all came to pass(sounds kinda biblical doesn’t it) last night at Cotton’s in Minden, Louisiana. Pittard is the one who sent me out there so I could argue that this is all his fault.

Cotton’s is a rather rough looking fried chicken joint. Not as rough as Gary Busey looks after a week long bender—-but fairly rough.

When we approached the place on hwy 79 what we witnessed could only be described as a frenzy. I haven’t seen that much craziness since we came up short on banana pudding at the Methodist church back in 1995! We ended up having to send the pastor to a three month Banana Pudding Addiction Recovery program. I hear he relapsed down in Lake Charles years later. Banana pudding is pure dope to a Methodist.

But back to Cotton’s.

The one place left to park in the pot-holed, dimly lit parking lot at Cotton’s was more narrow than Maxine Water’s mind. But we managed to squeeze in there.

There is a walk up order window on the outside, and an order window on the inside. A third window is badly needed.

Once seated across from a very large photograph of an old man(must be, or have been, Cotton) we waited. His photograph portrayed a man who appeared to have known many chickens. Yes, you can tell by looking.

At last our order arrived. Then—————then, I bit into that first drumstick. I passed into what can only be described as a dream state!
The holy fried chicken spirit came upon me! I would need a certified Pentecostal to adequately describe how I felt. Methodists like me never have such experiences. But I knew in that moment that I had reached out and touched the beak of the holy god of fried chicken! Who knew such food existed?

Later, as I drove away, I began to ponder Pittard’s bacon worship. I’ve heard he has an underground bacon bunker where he stores bacon in case of some unforeseen apocalyptic event.

As a matter of full disclosure I will reluctantly admit that I attended one of his late night meetings wherein he built a large bon fire, fashioned hats out of bacon and danced a weird pagan looking dance around the fire. It looked sort of like Elaine’s dancing on Seinfeld. Then we all ate bacon until we passed out. The next morning when I woke up the fire was continuing to smolder and I looked around to see that the still sleeping attendants, including myself, were all wearing Arkansas Razorback hats. Weird.

I’m going to go out on a limb here. I’m going to say that Cotton’s fried chicken
is, dare I say it, better than bacon!

Now——as many of you know, I am in fact, a baconaholic myself. I just can’t quit. Hell, I had a half a pound of bacon for breakfast this morning!
I’ve struggled. I’ve been to the twelve step meetings. I even had a sponsor(Susan Prestidge)who quit bacon many years ago and now drinks Vienna sausage juice, which is basically like methadone for bacon addicts.

Lord help me! I can’t get that chicken out of my head. I wonder if there are any crumbs in the bottom of my trash can from last night? It’s out on the curb. I could dig those out! Would that be wrong? Is this just trading one addiction for another? Maybe I should call Susan.

OH MY GOD! I HEAR THE GARBAGE TRUCK COMING! SH*T! I GOTTA GO!