I’ve gotten all totally weirded out by the way the Big US Meat Industry, or BUSMI (for lack of a better … or, um, Lisa-known … term), handles the entire life-cycle of the meats I eat (ahem … mind out of the gutter, boys), and so now I’ve just become sort of, um, not interested in eating them. Anymore. Much.
Besides, I feel soooooo bad when I drive by the big giant cattle carrying semi’s on the freeway, and all those soft little (big?) bovine noses stick out the side cracks in a desperate attempt (okay, I may be anthropomorphizing just a bit) to get a breath of fresh air. It saddens me. I want to zip (safely) in front of said semi and force it (safely and calmly) off the road where I can free the wee (huge?) beasties from their intended fate.
And take some home as pets. To the (not) farm I live on. Damn. Think a calf could be happy growing up in a basement walk-out? Could happen; you don’t know!
And I truly do know exactly how soft a calf’s nose is because I’ve pet them before … often, having grown up down the road from a dairy farm; and you know how little girls can be … show them a baby calf and they are all up and OWNED by said calf (until the next star of their short-attention-span-theatre-life comes along, that is). Ooh, butterfly!
So Kansas City kind of went and threw a giant ick-poo covered monkey-wrench in my whole Angus Beef lovin’ diet. Then those pernicious vegans (don’t really know if it was the ‘vegans’ per se, but somebody must be held accountable) went and put out all that propaganda about the chickens! The chickens! My fall-back meat! Everything goes great with chicken! Don’t want beef stew? Substitute chicken (and have everyone at work’s pot-luck freakin’ love it because it is that good)!
But, no! I can’t enjoy my chicken anymore, because they eat their dead, too!
Yeah, I said “too”. I wasn’t going to go there with the beef, but you know it’s true. That dairy farm I grew up down the street from? Yeah, when a newborn calf didn’t make it, what do you think they did with the carcass? Well, I happen to know what they did (although it didn’t ‘click’ until many years later), and it is gross! And involves eating your dead (AKA bovine cannibalism). Blecht. Just … blecht.
But it’s not that I really am a vegetarian these days, it’s just that I haven’t had time to find a local butcher who raises his own little trenchers of meat and has a petting zoo open to the public to prove it. But I will find him. Mostly because I really (really!) need a juicy burger. Mmmm. With cheese. And bacon … erp! The pigs! Have I mentioned the pigs?
A couple years back I went to school with a beast (er, ‘woman’) who worked for BUSMI, and she was an a-hole of epic proportions.
Wow, that came out of nowhere. Guess I didn’t like her much. Anyway, the stories she told! Pork is no longer on the menu.
Of course, I could always just learn how to hunt and get my own … um, deer … squirrel … dove … bunny (as if!). Or better yet, pen a couple lambs and piglets in the backyard and raise them for slaughtering like in days of yore.
Except.
Sigh.
All that would really do is make me the proud owner of pet sheep and pigs (and dogs, and cats). Mutter. Grumble. Spit!
Okay, I can see what I have to do here; I’ve got two options: 1) vegetarianism (nooooooo!), or 2) find me a local butcher who can prove his stock comes from non-steroid-treated, non-antibiotic-filled, non-tormented, non-dead-relative-fed, etc. … um, gardens. Sigh.
Vegetarianism it is. Shit.
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