Years ago, I painted signs for Coca-Cola as a contractor. One of the guys that put the signs up was black and was a good friend. His name was Charles. We often tried to out do each others wild tales and I believe this account of his was the ultimate champ. The weather was beginning to turn cold and in the south, that is about fifty. Friday night when he got off work, he and a few of his friends decided to stay out all night and drink bourbon. Charles, being the designated driver, was not as drunk as the others. About daylight on Saturday morning they wound up in Abbeville.
Making the circuit they heard of a lady in the quarters cooking chitlins. Like a moth to the flame or a bee to honey or a carload of drunks to chitlins, there was no keeping them away. The aroma was pungent at best when they arrived. As they paid their money and walked to the back yard, Charles was having doubts and lagged behind. His buddies had their plates and not wasting time were almost done. The smell had Charles concerned. Taking another drink, he walked over to the pot and peered in. He was aghast at what he saw. Chitlins have to be cleaned (or so they say) and these had never seen a bath or shower. Brown is not a good color for chitlin stew. Swimming around in the brown swill were little half digested kernels of white and yellow corn. Other things were in there also, but Charles did not have time to figure out what they were. The sun warming up the morning and the night of drinking led to his demise. He lost all of his night's bourbon and a few beers that just showed up from the pit of his stomach. Someone else had to drive home.
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