I held up the breast, and in that beautiful golden breast, like I said, I saw light. Then I held up the leg, the long, supple, and lubricated leg and I saw dark. Milton wasn't a fool, and he could have told you the same thing at one point in his journey, but he felt differently about the breast and the leg. For Milton, the leg was all that was good, and he would honor the leg and hold it up and speak of it glowingly – his tongue would even make spasmodic circles in his mouth as he stared, speechless, at the leg – from one end to the other.
But just as that would be certain, you could also rest assured that Milton would sneer at the breast. He would cup it in his outstretched hand, cradling it, you might say, but then he would take some sort of utensil and do an unmentionable thing to the breast. Often it was just a fork, or he would rely on his teeth. But every now and again he would lift up something really horrendous and apply it to the breast. Perhaps it would be a garlic press or a table saw. Maybe it would be a VHS tape rewinder or a bottle capper. Indeed – as much as Milton loved the leg, he despised the breast.
Where the leg and the breast meet, that place is holy, for it is called the thigh. The thigh looks a bit like the breast, but it tastes more like the leg, but it is surely – every bit of it – holy. Milton found that when he went down to Johnson's dry goods store.
Pressing at the door of the temple and seeking to know the holy of holies. Placing hope not in the loin but in the bird. Young bird. Tender bird. Soft, curvaceous bird.
Milton was chewing on a thigh from some young bird right outside the entrance to Johnson's dry goods store, when a man from the city came by in a fancy car and shot Milton dead. The man stepped out of the car and offered Milton to the man he was carting around in the back seat. The man in the back seat got out and snaked his vile, evil looking tongue, all snake-like and dangerous into Milton's crevasse. I cannot go into detail as to which crevasse in particular I speak of, but you might get the picture. Milton's crevasse was violated, posthumously, by this man from the big city and his serpentine tongue. Crevice, crevasse – when they are being violated posthumously it really doesn't matter what you call it.
Had Milton known, he would have been disturbed. More disturbing to him yet would have been the man from the city returning to his friends and family and announcing that his crevasse tasted of white meat.