After Bev Binkus’s morning boob show yesterday, the big man and I left the Casa Binkus compound to go out in search of what he calls Chicken-Loving America.

“Ya know DP,” said Binkus as we walked out to the car. “Our President, who’s a very fine Texan I must say, calls us Americans freedom-lovers. I say first and foremost, Americans are chicken-lovers.”

“Is that so sir…”

“Hell yes it’s so, and I’m gonna show ya.”

The day went something like this. Binkus rolled us through every fast food drive-thru in a 10-mile radius. His big blue Cadillac towing my trailer is, even in Texas, a touch longer than these fine establishments anticipated. We got high-centered at Cluck’s, Binkus knocked over a pole at Burger Baron (no relation), and quite a few shrubs were ripped from their roots in the surrounding wood chips. But we plowed through every damn drive-thru and each time, Binkus would shout “Beef or Chicken, what’s more popular here?” into the loudspeaker near the big colorful menu and four times out of five, some pubescent voice would yell back, “Chicken.”

There you have it.

“Ya see DP? There’s a sea change going on in America. Hell, Texas is known for beef, not chicken but still, look what they’re ordering. It’s the chicken’s time now. People know it. I know it. And I just wanted to make sure you know it. Do you know it?

“I never doubted it sir.”

“Excellent. Now, let’s scoot home cause’ I got quite the chicken dinner in the makings… in your honor.”

Oh, chicken giblet. Look freaks, I don’t eat meat. I am meat. It’s the Donkey Pegasus dilemma, and I’ve been waiting for my herbivorous existence to stir up trouble with Binkus for awhile now. Looks like it’ll be another business dinner of hiding my meat in my mashed potatoes and gorging on the greens.

Binkus and I arrived home just as the deluge of the Binkus extended family washed in behind us through the gates in a caravan of giant cars. I can’t imagine one family having so many children. Christmas must be expensive, chaotic, and loud. My Christmases are more tame: nativity reenactments around San Francisco, a nice big salad, and watching the winter sun set behind the Golden Gate.

Bev seemed up to her old tricks. She was wearing a giraffe-print dress with gold sandals and clanky bangles climbing up her arms. She was holding her hands up in the air with her fingers spread on account of a fresh cotton candy manicure and she winked at me when I trotted in as she directed her hired cooks in the kitchen.

“Donkey Peggie, I sure do hope you like chicken.”

Oi.

Talk about getting high on your own supply. What type of savages eat a six-course dinner composed entirely of chicken? The Binkuses, that’s who. Bev read me off the menu:

Appetizers: Binkus Wings, spicy and original (how shameless)
Salad: Chinese chicken salad (how unsalad-like)
Soup: Chicken tortilla soup (how Tex-Mex)
Entree: Chicken Palliard (how French)
Cheese Course: Chicken-skin-wrapped cheddar melts on Ritz crackers (how on earth could this be considered a cheese course?)
Dessert: Caramel Egg Custards (how creative, they actually managed to get the chicken in there)

Luckily, because dinner was in my honor, Binkus had me sit opposite him at the other end of the table. Head of the table, t’s a strange human custom, but it works for me because eating at a table is always awkward. Bev Binkus sat right next to me and if I wasn’t standing, I bet her hands would’ve been all over my knees. The Binkus servants (a quiet crew who seem to be much more clever than the Binkuses themselves) brought out the first course.

Arms. Hundreds of them it seemed, clawed at the big silver trays holding piles of Binkus Wings (you can tell the spicy ones because they’re the color of Bev’s hair, bright orange). The nameless Binkus family members devoured them like locusts. Through the tangle of reaching, Binkus couldn’t see my empty plate. I moved my lips like I was chewing when he glanced at me. (He mostly looks at his own plate.) And Bev? Well, let’s just say with a steady flow of white zinfandel in front of her, she doesn’t notice much.

Second course: At least the chicken salad had lettuce. I crunched the small pieces of romaine and used the big endive leaf to cover up the chicken pieces like an upside down canoe hiding a sneaky child. Easy money, no problemo.

Third course: I slurped some broth, alright, I admit it. Chicken broth it certainly was, but the Binkuses like everything nice and processed in their house so the degree of separation between the chicken and whatever flavor granules were dissolved to make that chicken water, I’m sure is at least ten. I can live with that.

Fourth course: It’s tricky. Tricky, tricky, tricky Huh. With nothing but chicken on the plate, there’s not much I could do.

“DP, how’s that palliard treatin ya? You know my great-great-great-grandfather was French. No doubt where the Binkuses get their refinement.”

“It’s breathtaking sir.” Breathtaking? How dramatic. That’s what red wine does to me. I’ve got a strict business dinner drinking policy. No Tanqueray. No Tomolives. And absolutely, No Tequila. I lost the Clorox account over tequila.

“Now that’s a good review!” exclaimed Binkus, delighted that I was savoring his family recipe. “Maria, come in here and give our guest DP another helpin of the palliard.”

Maria came in and slopped another layer on my plate, wincing, then looked me straight in the eyes as though she recognized me from her hometown or something. “Burro,” she said as she walked back to the kitchen shaking her head. “Ayayayi.”

I licked at the cream sauce for a bit then made a crafty tent from my paper napkin to block Binkus’s view of my plate. Things were going fine. Bev was dipping her tongue into her wine glass and fogging it up as she ogled, but otherwise things were moving along. I tried to summon Maria back through telepathy so she could retrieve my plate but no dice.

Ting ting ting ting ting ting.

Binkus rose, with a good deal of effor, from his seat, tinging his palliarded knife on his crystal wine glass. “Binkus family… I’ve gathered you here tonight because I’ve made a big decision about the future of Binkus Corp. and it involves this little donkey,” and here’s the part where Binkus started walking over to me, “who has proven to me this week that he truly understands the Binkus brand.”

Yesssss. Uh oh, here he comes. Nooo!

“And so, even though it’s a buttload of money, I’ve decided to award the Binkus account to—…, hey DP, you not hungry? That’s a big ole pile of palliard still on your plate.”

Oh God oh God oh God oh God.

“Thought you loved the palliard?”

Be cool. “I do sir, I love it. It’s just that Maria sort of loaded up my pla—”

“Big Papa, Donkey Pegasus hasn’t touched any of the chicken tonight!” Birky Binkus. Binkus’s grandson, blossoming ad guy, and royal pain in my ass. “It’s true. And I think I know why!”

“What?” asked Baron Binkus, shocked. “DP, you ain’t been eating the chicken?”

“No sir, that’s not true. I’ve definitely been enjoying all the chicken dishes tonight—”

“He hasn’t!” yelled Birky Binkus, standing now and pointing at me accusingly. “He don’t eat chicken cuz donkeys are vegetarians! Just like Chicken is (right, I forgot to tell you that Chicken is the family horse. Confusing, I know.)

“A vegetarian?” asked Binkus, deflated. “I can’t even start to believe it. Please, DP, tell me it’s not true!”

“It’s not true sir.”

“Well then prove it, now. I want to see you eat up some of that delicious chicken I’ve so generously served to you tonight.”

71 Binkus eyes watched me from around the table (Great Grandaddy Binkus lost an eye in the war). I looked up at Binkus and his eyes told me everything. Eat your chicken or get out. I nosed around my plate for a bit before I gave some dark meat a little lick, and finally picked it up in my mouth. I let the chicken rest on my tongue for a few minutes, hoping Binkus would be satisfied.

“Chew,” demanded Binkus, so I did what every other winged donkey whose about to lose the hottest account in US foodservice today would do. I chewed. Chomping my brother bird slowly, feeling the his cooked flesh in my mouth. Whatever God is out there… please forgive me. I had to do it. I’m not proud, but at least I’m honest. This is going to take seventeen straight sessions with Dr. Lynn to undo.

“That’s right DP, chew that chicken.” Mr. Binkus walked back to his seat. The room was as quiet as a funeral parlor. Birky Binkus snickered at me. Little asshole.

“So Mr. Binkus, you were saying?” I tried to get Binkus’s announcement back on track.

“Oh DP, it’s alright. I didn’t have anything important to say after all.” And he gave me a beady eyed look of scrutiny that said I’m watching you and went back to his plate. After all, the cheese course had arrived.

Binkus excused himself from the table shortly after the egg custards were served, which I devoured with publicized voracity (I’m no vegan) and in the early morning, Bev was the only Binkus who waved from the circular drive as I was loaded into my trailer and hauled back to the airport.

Binkus. Two steps forward, Texas two-step back. That kid is seriously on my shit list.