Friday, January 10, 2003
"Don't shit on me!," I cried at the goose flock wheeling above. The swarm honored that request, but that didn't stop them from hailing green eggs and ham on my car. That'll teach me to park on that side of the building. It almost makes me want to kill what I eat, just for the illusion of triumph over nature. Almost.
My fantasy of gnawing a fresh still-beating deer heart will have to wait. Photographs of me with bubbly blood running down my chin and a twitching artery poking out the corner of my mouth will not be taken anytime soon. When they do.. well.... let's just say I won't have to fake that smile.
No, instead I'll refrain from purchasing firearms and stick to the farmed meat. I realize that they keep the cows in factory pens where they eat, shit, breathe, and squeal during chemical growth hormone injections, and this doesn't bother me. I don't have to smell it.
I wonder about those folks that consciously decide they want to work at a butcher shop. For some it's a family business, but there have to be some people who woke up one day thinking "I want to chop dead meat." You know, people that derive satisfaction from rending bovine anatomy into separate wet piles. For my consumption, and yours.
Then there's the slaughterhouse. I imagine that some do this for economic reasons. Small town, two choices: spike cows in the skull and peel their skin with giant hooks, or swindle hobos for cheap wine and sneak up on old women and steal their insulated jackets. Do they hire immigrant workers to do this kind of stuff now? I'll bet the mop job there is awful. I wonder what kind of jokes they tell one another. I think it would be funny if they drank red Kool-Aid. Especially if they used that Kool-Aid man pitcher.
I should write the fellow who keeps the Theoretical Sociopath journal. He posts once a month, I suppose during library visits between victims and fleeing from trenchcoated detectives. I'll bet he knows all about it.
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