IT WAS A sad day for chickens yesterday, although many of them never even knew it. Mine don't normally read the newspaper, citing a lack of unbiased coverage of cracked corn and small bugs. I don't normally read the paper either. I have my own reasons (too expensive, books are better, annoying typos, weak writing in general, philosophically unsound, socially irrelevant, not enough sports or nudity, lack of unbiased coverage of chickens) ...

Oh, every now and again, between setting aside Camus and picking up my own pen, so to speak, I'll spot an abandoned Chronicle on the table next to mine at the coffeehouse, or down the counter at the restaurant, or on the back of the toilet, and I'll sort-of somewhat absentmindedly leaf through it, looking for sports or nudity.

What's this?!

Page three of yesterday's Chron, which in this case I'd scavenged from a Bay Guardian dispenser at Super Star Yong De, while waiting for my take-out order: "Thailand Killing Its Chickens" ... alongside a chilling photo of Thai "soldiers and prisoners" tossing bulky white bags onto a huge heap of bulky white bags in an open mass grave. Nine million killed since November, I read. Some kind of deadly-to-humans chicken influenza. One boy dead. Wait a minute – they're burying these chickens ALIVE!!!!!

The italics, all-caps, and exclamation marks are mine. The Chronicle very casually mentions this fact in passing, no explanation as to why they would bury the chickens alive, although maybe that's supposed to be obvious. I don't know. Easiest way to kill nine million chickens? Safest way to contain the virus? I guess we're supposed to look it up online.

And not a peep in 20 column inches questioning the math whereby one boy = nine million chickens.

Jesus. Jesus Christ. Poor chickens have it hard enough as it is, tasting as good as they do to so many different animals, myself included. And now they can't even so much as sniffle and sneeze without bringing on this brutal bury-alive poultricide.

I looked up from the news and out the window of Super Star Yong De, across Diamond Street to Glen Park BART, where work-weary commuters were streaming out onto the sidewalks, waiting for buses. Stuck in traffic. It was 5:30 and it was starting to rain.

There are some things sadder than a lifeless mass of humanonymity emerging from underground into a dead grainy midwinter twilight.

What? Do you want me to tell you what they are? Ah, you can look it up online. I've got other things to chew on now. Iraq Iraq Iraq. Mars Mars Mars. Kerry Dean Clark. And not only that but my food's ready. I fold the old newspaper under my arm, just in case the stuff in the bag in my other hand inspires another trip to the bathroom later.

But I may as well say a few quick words on behalf of Super Star Yong De, while I'm on my way out. At 5:30 in the afternoon, when everybody who's getting it is getting it to go, the atmosphere is dominated by a ringing telephone and cornball light rock courtesy of KOIT. Hopefully that all tones down later, for the eat-inners.

They have purple-painted tables with Chinese writing on them, really nice teacups, and cool green chopsticks. The walls are fake white brick at the bottom and lavender up top, with a couple cute horsey and lovers wood cutouts, a Samurai sword, stuff like that.

The idea here is Chinese food and Japanese, and they have extensive menus both which-ways. The good news is the stuff seems to come, for the most part, from two different kitchens. There's a kitchen kitchen, where the Chinese stuff comes from, and there's a sushi counter in one corner of the place, which seems to operate somewhat autonomously.

I didn't get any sushi, but I did get an order of shrimp tempura udon ($6.95) to complement my chicken chow mein ($4.95), sautéed broccoli ($5.95), and green onion pancakes ($2.75). All of which was just OK, except that Crawdad loved the broccoli. It was pretty good.

Didn't give me the shits, at any rate.

But this morning, after an awful night's sleep (dreaming my own three chickens were packed into a boxcar with 8,999,997 others), I dug the paper up and leafed to the editorial page, thinking surely this chicken thing would warrant an actual editorial stand, if not a cartoon.

Nope. "Dodging Obesity." Something about Sacramento. WMD cartoon. And, dominating the op-ed page, a big picture of Martha Stewart.

Jesus, Jesus Christ. Where are our heads, everybody?

Not with the chickens in Thailand.

Super Star Yong De. 2922 Diamond (at Bosworth), S.F. (415) 333-7882/3. Daily: 11 a.m.-11 p.m. Takeout available. Beer and wine. American Express, Discover, MasterCard, Visa. Wheelchair accessible.