However, defense attorneys raised several questions about her husband's character.
"Isn't it true, ma'am, that your husband was known to associate with other hens in the hen house?"
"Cluck," she clucked.
"And isn't it true that he was known for being something of a hothead—scratching around the barnyard, ruffling feathers?"
"Cluck, cluck," she clucked.
"And furthermore, isn't it true that on the day of his alleged demise, your husband, Earl the Chicken, was a suspect in the mysterious death of a Kentucky colonel known for wearing white suits and black string ties?"
At that point, Mrs. Chicken began squawking uncontrollably.
"Ba-gock!"
The judge slammed down his gavel.
"That's it!" he shouted. "I will have order in this court. The chicken is excused—and will the prosecution please instruct your client to refrain from laying eggs in the witness stand?"
After a brief recess to collect the eggs, Judge Rabinowitz brought back the jury and asked the court reporter to read back some of the bird's testimony.
"I'll do my best, your honor, but it's going to be difficult," she said.
"Why's that, Sally? Forget your reading glasses?"
"No, your honor—it's the writing. It's chicken scratch."
The turning point in the trial came when a forensic scientist from the New York City C.S.I. found what would become the damning evidence against Starnes.
"We searched the defendant's apartment and found what appeared to be the final resting place for Mr. Chicken," said Special Agent Casey Culver. "The evidence was scattered across a kitchen counter—chicken pieces were everywhere. Most had been discarded in a cardboard bucket with red and white stripes."
"Were there any condiments?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir—but we did find a side of slaw."
The prosecutor probed Agent Culver for more information about the crime scene.
"It was one of the most horrendous crime scenes I've ever had to navigate, sir," he said. "We found, we found—I'm sorry—it was just so traumatic."
The prosecutor walked back to his table, grabbed a bottle of water, and handed it to the emotionally distraught agent.
"Take your time, son," he said. "Now, tell us. What did you find?"
"We found appendages sir."
"Appendages?"
"Yes sir. Chicken appendages, and what appeared to be dipping sauces."
The courtroom erupted into a chorus of gasps and several outbursts, leading the judge to gavel the crowd into submission.
"Order!" he said. "I will have order in my courtroom!"
And that's when the special agent dropped the bombshell.
"We found evidence some of the victims were exposed to some sort of chemicals before they were deep fried," said Special Agent Casey Culver.
"What kind of chemicals?" the prosecutor asked.
"We aren't quite certain," Culver replied. "But we've been able to isolate at least eleven herbs and spices."
In spite of the overwhelming physical and circumstantial evidence, Judge Rabinowitz nearly had to declare a mistrial after an unfortunate incident involving the jury. The house cat ate the parakeet, forcing him to install an alternate juror.
It took the jury five minutes to render a verdict.
"Mr. Starnes, you've been found guilty of a most foul crime, the genocide of Earl the Chicken and his offspring. Sir, your behavior is a disgrace to mankind. Do you have any last words before I sentence you?"
Starnes stood alongside his attorney and was immediately surrounded by U.S. marshals. He looked down at the table and then turned to face Judge Rabinowitz.
"Yes, your honor," he replied to a hushed courtroom. "I do have something to say."
"Well, we're waiting," the judge said.
Starnes adjusted his glasses, straightened his tie, and cleared his throat.
"Those chickens were finger-licking good," he replied.
7
Singing Praise Songs to Obama
"He is the one."1
Those were the words uttered by Oprah Winfrey to the people of Iowa. The political savior of whom she spoke was Barack Obama. And on that day he converted many new followers, thanks in part to Oprah's gospel revelation.
In the days following Obama's ascendance to the White House, union educators across the land surrendered to a higher calling—to disciple young boys and girls on the tenets of his political faith, to lead them in the singing of praise songs to the leader they called "the one."
And that brings us to the fine folks at the B. Bernice Young Elementary School in Burlington, New Jersey. Video surfaced showing boys and girls literally singing and chanting President Obama's name.
"Barack Hussein Obama. Mmm, mmm, mmm."
The video showed children repeatedly chanting the president's name and celebrating his accomplishments. At one point the students sang the Christian song, "Jesus Loves the Little Children." But the school's version replaced the name of Jesus with Obama's.
The video set off a firestorm of controversy among parents who claimed the school was indoctrinating their children.
"I'm stunned. I can't believe it's our school," said parent Jim Pronchik. His eight-year-old son was one of the kids on the video. "We don't want to praise this guy like he's a god or an idol or a king or anything like that. That's the wrong message to be sending."
New Jersey's Department of Education ordered a review of the incident, which school officials said was part of a Black History Month celebration.
"I felt this was reminiscent of 1930s Germany and the indoctrination of children to worship their leader," said Robert Bowen in a FOX News interview. He has two children at the school.
But Superintendent Christopher Manno defended the performance telling the Burlington County Times, "There was no intention to indoctrinate children. The teacher's intention was to engage the children in an activity to recognize famous and accomplished African Americans."2
Now imagine what would happen if a schoolteacher actually wrote a song that was perceived as anti-Obama. What would happen to such a person? For the answer, let me introduce you to Bryan Glover, a now unemployed middle school football coach.
Bryan Glover, an assistant coach at Grassland Middle School near Nashville, cowrote the country music song, "When You're Holding a Hammer, Everything Looks like a Nail."3 He said the song, which is critical of the president, is the reason he got fired.
It was cowritten by a parent whose child plays on the team. Glover, twenty-six, said he e-mailed a copy of the song to friends, family members, and players' parents through his personal e-mail account.
And that's when all the trouble started for the self-described independent conservative.
"The coach called me and said parents were upset, that I was being politically incorrect and the song had racial overtones," Glover told me. "An hour and a half later I was told I was being terminated.
"I was informed that I was being let go because of the song," he said, denying claims there were any racial overtones in the song.
Williamson County School Superintendent Mike Looney disputed Glover's account and said his dismissal had nothing to do with the song.
"Absolutely not," he said. "That's a false claim."
Looney said he was not allowed to go into specifics but acknowledged he spoke with the school's principal and was satisfied with their handling of the matter.
"They presented me with logical, legally defensible reasons for doing so," Looney said. "As far as I'm concerned, they've handled the matter appropriately."
Glover said he's angry over what happened and believes he lost his job because his song was critical of President Obama. And he's not the only one who's angry.
"It was a disgrace, and we have to stand up for the guy," said Michael Katsaitis, who has a son on the football team. He said he met with the principal of the school after Glover's firing and is convinced his dismissal was a result of the song.
"The first thing she told me was that Bryan's song was derogatory to our president," he said. "He shouldn't have been fired over that song."
Glover said he's pretty fired up over his dismissal.
"I'm pretty heated," he said. "I'm just a blue-collar guy, trying to make a living, trying to chase a dream."
So read some of the lyrics for yourself and decide if the school district was justified in their action:
He was a little man, just turned three
Took the present from his daddy's hand
A genuine toy hammer
He started beatin' to beat the band
He hit the floors and the wall, broke a lamp in the hall,
Started swinging at the puppy's tail
When you're holding a hammer
Everything looks like a nail.
He was the president, number 44
He says, "Trust me, I'm here to help you
I have got some big, big plans
You're gonna love what I'm gonna do."
There's no problem too big or small
He thinks he's got an answer that just can't fail
When you're holding a hammer
Everything looks like a nail.
Chorus: He thinks big thoughts and he dreams big dreams
But it's another man's sweat that pays for those schemes
He don't care how the little people feel
'Cause saving the world is a big freaking deal
So he does his business behind closed doors
And pretends that the world is just begging for more
When the stuff hits the fan, he says, "Don't look at me
If you got trouble, blame 43."
There's more, but you get the picture. Political satire. One man's opinion.
Unfortunately for Bryan Glover, it was one opinion too many. He got hammered by the nail.
8
The Chocolate Czar
Brownies are now banned in New York City schools. So are lemon bars, cotton candy—even carrot cake. The Big Apple is cracking down on childhood obesity by outlawing bake sales on school property. It's all part of the education department's efforts to force-feed a wellness policy that also prohibits vendors from selling candy bars and potato chips in vending machines.
According to the mayor's office, about 50 percent of New York City youngsters are overweight. Somebody crunched the numbers and determined that chocolate pudding is making kids stupid, noting the correlation between student health and failing grades on standardized tests.
So now vending machines are stocked with fruit juice and granola bars. And if the cheerleading team wants to earn money for new pom-poms, they'll have to sell carrot sticks and wheatgrass.
School leaders have given principals an incentive to force kids to eat healthy food. "Noncompliance may result in adverse impact on the principal's compliance performance rating," the policy states. In other words, that pudgy kid scarfing Oreos could cost a principal his job.
Howard Wechsler is the director of adolescent and school health at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. He told the New York Post the city's regulations are among the strictest in the nation. "Schools are supposed to be a place where we establish a model environment, and the last thing kids need is an extra source of pointless calories," he said. For those of you reading between the lines, the good doctor is suggesting that the only place your child can definitely get a well-balanced meal is from the government.
I decided to check in with Smitty, my man down at city hall and the mayor's point person on the candy crisis. Smitty is the director of New York City's Office of Chocolate Control Policy.
He promised to give me an inside look at the underbelly of a burgeoning crisis. So we set up a meeting at Mao Tse Tung Junior High School—ground zero in his quest to eradicate the sugary plague that has befallen our city.
"This is an epidemic," he said. "We believe it goes far beyond the walls of public schools. In many cases children don't get their first taste of chocolate from their friends; they get it from their father or their mother's secret Valentine's Day stash."
"It sounds like a pretty serious problem," I said. "James Bond had Goldfinger, but you've got Butterfinger."
"You don't get it, Todd. America's war on teenage chocolate abuse will be won or lost in our schools. And that's why mandatory testing is necessary. We can't rely on parents to do the right thing, so it's up to the government."
As was the case for drinkers during Prohibition, chocolate lovers have gone underground. And that's certainly the case in the Big Apple. Smitty told me a black market has emerged. Chocolatiers have set up shop in dark alleys and in Central Park, offering kids milk chocolate morsels. The newspapers have been filled with heart-wrenching accounts of youngsters popping Skittles and snorting Pixie Sticks. The problem has become so severe, Smitty has recruited Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, and Paris Hilton to produce a series of public service announcements called, "Just say no to Ho Hos."
To illustrate his point, Smitty explained why he wanted to meet at Mao Tse Tung Junior High School. "We've isolated the heart of the contraband candy industry to this school," he said. "But so far we've been unsuccessful in hunting down the leader."
"Sort of like a Godiva Godfather, I suppose."
"Very cunning," said Smitty. "The product is high grade. Hard to track down. It melts in your mouth, not in your hands."
Many parents and students are upset. They defend the bake sales as a way to raise money for school uniforms and trips. I asked Smitty if extracurricular activities might suffer as a result of the ban.
"Oh, not at all," he replied. "We are providing the schools with some wonderful alternatives to bake sales. For example, children could sell environmentally friendly wrapping paper or adopt a tree."
Adopt a tree instead of nibbling on a Snickerdoodle? Good luck with that.
Our conversation was interrupted by a series of bells and whistles blasting from the public-address system.
"We have a code red in the boy's bathroom. I repeat, code red. Teachers, please lock your classroom doors. All security personnel to your stations!"
Smitty tossed me a Kevlar vest and ordered me to stay close as we sprinted down the hallway.
"What's happening? Has there been a shooting?"
"Worse," said Smitty. "We've got a kid with a candy bar. This might be the break we need."
The bathroom had already been secured by two guards who were busy mounting yellow crime scene tape around the entrance. Smitty flashed his Chocolate Czar credentials and immediately took charge.
"What do we have here, officer?"
"I caught the perpetrator red-handed," he said. "But he wouldn't cooperate so I had to taser the boy."
Sure enough, there was a thirteen-year-old boy convulsing on the floor, his schoolbooks scattered under the urinals.
"Good grief, Smitty. He's just a boy. Was this really necessary?"
"This isn't some sort of schoolyard game, Todd. The War on Chocolate will have casualties. Now somebody cuff the suspect."
Smitty rifled around inside the boy's backpack and pulled out what he thought was the smoking gun, a vial filled with colorful flakes.
"Fruity pebbles?" I asked.
Smitty, disappointed, tossed it aside. "No," he said. "Vitamins. Officer, I thought you said you caught him red-handed?"
"I did, sir. He tried to flush the evidence down the commode."
Smitty flung open the stall door and glanced into the toilet. About thirty seconds later he ordered the officer to release the boy.
"I don't understand, sir. We have t
he goods on this perp. I caught him before he flushed the candy bar."
"Officer, I'm pretty certain that's not a Baby Ruth floating in there."
There you have it folks. Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't.
9
An Inconvenient Truth
The Great Snow-pocalypse is upon us.
New York City has been attacked by the mother of all snowstorms. AccuWeather dubbed it a "snowicane." For those of you in Des Moines, that's a hurricane with snow. We were told to gird our loins and stock up on bread and Nutter Butters.
The National Weather Service, on the other hand, downplayed the pending doom and preferred to use the term "Winter Storm Warning." They accused their competition of being irresponsible.
"It's almost inciting the public, inciting panic,"1 meteorologist Craig Evanego told the Associated Press. It's pretty apparent that Craig the weatherman was not in my Brooklyn neighborhood because we had a full-blown snowicane.
It snowed for two straight days, and by the time it was done, New York City resembled a snow globe. More than twenty inches of white stuff, the fourth largest snowfall in Gotham's history. And while most folks hunkered down in their overpriced apartments, news folks, like myself, were called to active duty.
I knew I was in trouble when I had to push open my front door. I knew I was in really big trouble when the door slammed back shut. Trust me, folks. You haven't experienced true Fear Factor unless you've trudged through two feet of snow in a forty-five-mile-per-hour, gale-force wind to make it to the Q-Train subway stop.
The weather was so unbearable even the muggers left me alone. Folks, I had parts of my body shivering I didn't know could shiver. To make matters worse, I think I spotted a wooly mammoth lumbering down the street. Of course, it could've been Snuffleuphagus. I'm not really sure.
It took me about forty-five minutes to walk the four blocks to the subway only to discover the trains were shut down. If I wanted to make it to the office, I was going to have to hoof it—thirteen miles.
So I grabbed an ice pick and some rope and began making my way toward the Coney Island Highway, hoping a stranger might come along on skis to offer me a ride. I was stunned at how the snowicane transformed the landscape of the borough where a tree once grew.
Dispatches from Bitter America: A Gun Toting, Chicken Eating Son of a Baptist's Culture War Stories Page 4
