Scott Hollifield: Giant chicken sale ruffles feathers

The state sold a giant chicken and, unfortunately, I didn't buy it.

This wasn't a living, breathing giant chicken, the product of some clandestine agriculture department experiment to produce Buffalo wings the size of a two-person canoe, which, in my opinion, would be a wise use of research dollars. It was a 6 1/2-foot-tall replica chicken, part of what was described as a "menagerie of fiberglass animals" declared surplus by the N.C. State Fair and sold by the Surplus Property Agency.

"We had quite a bit of bidding for these pieces so it was fun to finally get to open the bids and see who bought them," Surplus Property Officer Robert Riddle said in a news release that, after the fact, only poured salt - perhaps even surplus DOT salt -- in the wounds of those of us who would love to have a giant chicken and had absolutely no idea the state was selling one.

I'm a solid citizen. I pay my taxes sometimes. I vote when it's not raining. So it seems that when a giant surplus chicken is hauled into a warehouse in Raleigh to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, someone on the state payroll would say, "Who would really like a giant chicken? I bet that guy up toward the mountains who writes way too much about monkeys, early- to mid-'70s Burt Reynolds movies, Cousin Junior and dog snot would put that sucker in his front yard. Let's give him a holler."

But no. The Wayne County Livestock Development Association, a nefarious organization that must have the inside track on surplus fiberglass poultry sales (I am formally requesting a grand jury investigation) bought the giant chicken for $259. Had I known about the auction, I would have bid $259.50, thereby contributing more money to the state's coffers and perhaps saving a teacher's job in these uncertain economic times.

Wondering what other treasures the state was willing to part with, I clicked on over to the Surplus Property Agency Web site to view its current listing of items classified as "surplus property, seized & unclaimed." I couldn't exactly figure out what was surplus, what was seized and what was unclaimed (that would take some real reporting and, as a columnist, I try to leave the real reporting to the guy who was laid off last week) but I figured the Honda Rebel motorcycle was seized while the lot of miscellaneous mid-'80s Ford bus parts was surplus. Nearly all of it could have been unclaimed.

There was a selection of jewelry - a petite Figaro necklace; heart-shaped post earrings; a gold-colored pendant with a heart design; a silver-colored bracelet with a gold-colored horse-heart decoration - that was either seized or found under a bed in the Governor's Mansion after the last election.

There were plenty of vehicles and proof that state workers would make unsuccessful used-car salesmen if this actual description is any indication of their persuasive techniques: "1992 Ford Truck...MUST BE TOWED, A/C, seats damaged, windshield chipped, no spare tire, trim on door damaged, has tool box on back, dash damaged, minor rust, paint scratched, peeling, faded."

But I bet with an adjustment or two she'll run like a scalded dog.

Country music bands may want to check out the 2002 Thomas Bus, perfect for a cross-country tour: "Needs two new batteries, will not start, w/toilet, security screen, A/C not working, windshield damaged, electrical problems, gauges not working properly ...no spare tire, no antenna, minor rust, paint scratched, peeling, faded," (and to make sure we understood) "batteries dead."

It's a dang shame Buck Owens isn't still around.

There were file cabinets, telephones, cafeteria benches, copiers, printers, hospital beds, exercise equipment and a 43-year-old Baldwin concert piano encased in a chestnut frame.

There was not another giant chicken.

Treat her well, Wayne County Livestock Development Association, treat her well.