KFC to Activists: Mmm... Fried Chicken!

fter coming under increased scrutiny in recent months for the inhumane treatment of the 736 million chickens they cannonball into American gullets every year, the fast food chain KFC made a sweeping public statement this week to address the concerns of consumers, animal rights activists, and the chickens themselves:

“Mmm… fried chicken!�

The statement, made in a low baritone and accompanied by a belly-rubbing gesture, has incensed PETA activists who have spent years working to change the chain’s practices. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals representatives have accused KFC of buying from suppliers who practice inhumane methods of raising and slaughtering chickens, including using drugs to breed chickens to grotesque proportions which cripple the bird, housing chickens in cages too small for the birds to stand up, resulting in the chickens actually growing around the cage wire, and combating the resulting panicked violent chicken behavior by cutting off the birds’ beaks. PETA also contends that these suppliers finish the screwjob by scalding the birds to death in feather removal tanks, just in case they didn’t get the message that life is a brutal and heartless experience.

Still, this latest statement represents a landmark for KFC, whose previous responses to activists had been even more insulting.

“KFC uses only the highest quality ingredients,� answered KFC’s US spokeswoman Bonnie Warschauer in 1996, rubbing her tummy when asked if it might not be unreasonable for KFC to raise the prices of its meals by a penny to pay for humane improvements, which might keep the general public from having to hear really gross chicken stories from liberal arts majors all the time.

In recent months, all-white-meat actress Pamela Anderson and noted extra-tasty-crispy comedian Russell Simmons have joined PETA in speaking out against the fast-food chain, a move that the group’s officials bemoan but have been powerless to block.

“If people knew how KFC treats chickens, they’d never eat another drumstick,� stated Anderson, no stranger to questionable breast-meat. Drumstick-eaters interviewed the street disagreed with Anderson, arguing that they were pretty sure KFC kills the shit out of their chickens before frying their corpses is scalding oil, but still wanted to know if she was hot in person.

KFC has also come under fire in recent weeks from health groups, who have taken offense at the chain’s commercials promoting KFC as a healthier alternative to other fast foods. The ads in question feature the animated “Colonel� character announcing, “Burgers give you ass cancer!� then rubbing his tummy and intoning sensually “Mmm… fried chicken!�

KFC, a unit of Louisville-based Yum Brands Inc., has been struggling with slumping sales in recent years, and has sought to address both its fiscal and public relations woes with the introduction of the new “extra-tasty-crazy� fried chicken variety, based on the popular assumption that chickens driven mad by slaughterhouse conditions might likely have an especially zesty flavor. The fast food chain was previously known as Kentucky Fried Chicken, but changed its name in 1991 to distance its products from the negative connotations of fried foods, chickens, and the state of Kentucky.

This latest obscene hand-gesture directed at animal rights groups by KFC is likely bad news for consumers, as PETA activists are already discussing the possibility of handing out buckets of mutilated chickens in front of KFC restaurants, unless they can think of something more disgustingly gut-wrenching on the way to the protest.

fforts to rebuild Iraq achieved a success Friday when U.N. officials, voiced by Secretary-General Kofi Annan, pledged funding for the reconstruction from the official United Nations "swear jar."

The swear jar, instituted in the 1960s during initial squabbles between Israel and surrounding Islamic nations, became a staple of public negotiations at the U.N. building in New York. Familiar statements such as, "Please, ambassador—there are ladies present," or, "Does the Prime Minister kiss his mother with that mouth?" became outlets for relief of tension with the high-strung representatives of many nations.

The legacy of the swear jar since its inception has spawned many rumors with U.N. fans, or "Unies," as they are called behind their backs. In 1967 the popular story was the swear jar had accumulated $432,000, all of which would be used for a hootenanny-slash-barbecue that summer, until Cold War relations worsened and the jar was put aside for possible war reparations to the eventual winning side. In 1978, after years of U.N. members dipping in for candy bars and vending machine sodas, the swear jar funds were down to $1.3 million, despite accruing an estimated $3.9 million in the time since public discussion of its allocation, and popular sentiment at that time was to use the bounty to build a new recreation room with new pool tables, a 27-inch TV, and a sofa with its upholstry intact. In 1990, during the first Gulf War crisis, the U.N. elected to move the swear jar money to a ceramic Mickey Mouse bank so everyone would be less likely to replenish other funds from swear-earned income.

At Friday's donor dinner, which is fun to say, U.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell addressed attendees from the United Nations and requested approximately $35.8 billion through 2007 or "best offer" for the rebuilding of war torn Iraq, in which we did most of the tearing.

Angry nations and their angrier representatives expressed disinterest in springing for rebuilding out of their own pockets after explicitly making their aversion to the war public. Miniature squabbles resulted in the aftermath, adding an estimated $43 to the swear jar before lunchtime, but U.N. executives managed to chill out the crowd with a copy of Bob Marley's Legend album.

With the uproar squashed, Secretary General Kofi Annan sparked a quiet hush in the room when he turned to Treasury Secretary Candy and asked, "How much is in the swear jar?" After conferring privately with the secretary, Annan nodded and turned back toward the microphone, pronouncing, "I think we can swing it."

Most countries found the pledge agreeable, but the allocation of the swear jar funding did have its opponents. French ambassador Henrí Bois-Bois was quick to voice his dissent.

"If the U.S. expects the rest of the Western world to step in and pay to make its repairs when it gives us no voice in preventing a war, we are setting a dangerous precedent by agreeing to do so," stated the dignitary. "Also, there are many of us who had not given up hope on getting jackets with our names on the back done up. Those are not going to pay for themselves. Does the U.S. propose to pay for those in exchange? This is so unfair."

The swear jar allocation, if it happens, could be the largest expenditure of U.N. community bank since financing a pizza party to settle the Falkland Islands dispute with money found in the rec room couch cushions.

After a voyage that took me to nearly every state in the union, and some I'm still not convinced are legally in, I found my Elvis medicine.

First a long trip to New Hampshire, only to realize the Elvis Graceland is in Memphis, so I headed down that way. I'm sure there was plenty of pharmaceuticals on hand in that huge facility, but the tour guides give you the most morbid look when you ask if you can go through the medicine cabinet. I'm sure the King looks down disapprovingly from his cloud, but he's powerless to help me now.

And that's when I thought of it—Elvis helpers! I've seen them everywhere. Like Santa Claus, they are plentiful and pose as the man himself while going around, doing his bidding, like non-denominational disciples. And like Elvis, of course, Santa Claus also died in a mansion in the 1970s, but his work continues through those noble men. All I had to do was meet up with a faithful Elvis impersonator and I would receive the medicine I so needed! Though actually, the flu that inspired this long trek disappeared somewhere between Ohio and Kentucky, but I was already in motion, no fun to stop the journey.

All I can guess is it must be the off-season, since the Elvis helpers were nowhere in sight. I tried the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the original Sun Studios, and every Hard Rock Café in the nation. I camped out for days in front of Nicolas Cage's house, knowing well his fetish for everything Elvis, but none ever showed up. The police officer who escorted me away had a pretty good sneer, but he was sneering for a different reason. That's when it occurred to me—Las Vegas! The Windy Apple! The City of Broken Lights! The Gamblingest Place on Earth!

I had a contact in Vegas, too, through a friend named MC Vic Daniels, whom I met through the commune. He once wrote a Rent for us, so I knew he was poor and had a poor interpretation of reality, and hopefully those factors would help me find a reliable Elvis who could help. I saw his show, and even though I'm not much on rap, I certainly enjoyed a lot of it, and indeed his shoes were worth remarking on. We shared a dinner afterwards, and it turns out he knows the best of the best Elvis impersonators. Which is good, since I wanted a sincere Elvis imitator, and not some loser just pretending to be Elvis.

I found the best indeed—Loretta "Elvis" Costello, a female Elvis impersonator who couldn't look more like Elvis if her mother had been the King. Not a female impersonator, but a female who impersonates—she has trouble with those adjectives all the time. She was kind, informative, and could belt out "In the Ghetto" so well as to bring a tear to your eye. Quick to help, too, as she carried her own duffel bag loaded from top to bottom with the finest prescription drugs you could ever find—Elvis' own, no doubt. She set me up for everything I need, and took no money in return. Why, you may ask? You cynical shit. Some people just carry the spirit of the good King with them, and exhibit it in everything they do. In fact, I want to live the same way from now on. I thanked Girl Elvis and invited her to drop in any time she was in the neighborhood, and I would be glad to repay the favor.

She said she was going to be coming to Atlantic City next week and needed a place to stay, so she would be happy to take me up on the offer. Didn't know what time she would arrive, whenever her friend Merle dropped her off, and didn't know how long she would be staying, since the show may get extended. Yes, I truly am a stupid man.

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