Makes Me Want To Beef Binge, Just Because…
An old friend recently tossed this depressing article on her Facebook page….
Ever the churlish contrarian, I crafted an offensive, caustic response–even though I’m barely a beef eater myself, the preciousness of all this chicken little vegan nonsense hits me like wood splinters (or slivers, if you will) beneath my fingernails. I thought it was funny, of course–but in such matters I’m often alone. Still, fortunately for you I’m compelled to share — opting to disconcert a few strangers rather than reply with a snarky rant to a girl I’ve known since I was four.
Remember when our vegetarian friends were primarily innocuous, over-sensitive earth-muffins who delighted in saying things like, “oh, man–don’t you get that you’re eating pain, man?” I miss those older, simpler days. We no longer get away so lightly. The new thing is that steak is a civilization-ending vehicle for megalomaniacal destruction of not just our way of life, but the entire human race. And that is a lot to blame to lay on a burger.
Now, between you and me, it is rare for me to eat beef twice in the same month, but I still recognize these are truly the end of days. There are no options. Soy tastes like shit and shrinks testicles until they look like nothing so much as sad little garbanzo beans. Salmon is declining and mostly factory farmed, and I can’t even think the word “vegan” without giggling. (Also: soy/vegan = chemical/metaphorical castration –coincidence? I think not.) Sigh. I mean: jeez, it took me the better part of a decade to figure out how to pronounce “quinoa” and now we can’t even eat that because now that it’s trendy and expensive, the indigenous folks who grow it can’t afford to buy it and are starving. I still remember that day, back in 1996, when my old buddy Jeff told me I must start eating quinoa — we thought it was keen-wa, you know, like “ben wa”and were momentarily enthused, but that quickly passed— “It’s an ancient grain! Ancient!” And now our quinoa fascination is starving the South American farmers who grow it. And to be honest, is it me, or does it really not taste much different than barley? Still, I’m worried: I don’t even want to know what terrible news about edamame is on the horizon.
My wife ate a burger in a restaurant the other night that was an abomination some sadistic bastard constructed of crushed black beans and, probably, Elmer’s Glue. I thought, “cue the creepy music and lightning effects, and call Igor–this is Frankenfood.” I opted for the shrimp, because I’m a bully and like to pick on creatures much smaller than I am, and I can eat about seventeen of those bad boys. It’s not just “eating pain,” we’re talking genocide of biblical proportions, which makes me feel godlike and big in the britches.
But I digress. The obvious solution to meat-flavored extinction is the forced sterilization of vast hordes of third world folks (including a very wide swath of the American Confederacy — how wide, you ask? As wide as it takes.) in order to reset population numbers and create space for the emissions created by the chicken tacos, pepperoni, and occasional breakfast sausage necessary to lead a honest, satisfying life.
Of course, I would be on board with a “local only” meat rule in the face of drought. I mean, hell, it rains here 218 days a year (just another way Pittsburgh shows up yesterday’s charm city, Portland: the gloom factor. We just don’t brag about it.) It’s the economy of scale that gets us–I can buy half a cow from Liz & Malcolm, who pretty much just let the beef wander around their property for a couple years before (Chuck makes slicing motion across his neck). And maybe that’s the solution? Don’t know a farmer? Eat seeds and twigs.
Originally published at oldroadapples.wordpress.com on March 21, 2016.