f all the folks I detest, I think the people of PETA are the most loathsome. Their save-the-animals shenanigans never cease to amaze and piss me off. In my mind, PETA is a four letter word more vile than fuck, shit, cock, balls, twat, cunt and crap all rolled into one. I hate them more than I hate Drew Barrymore.
In northern europe, PETA's dim-witted Norwegian cousin, The Norwegian Federation for Animal Protection is protesting a program which would give fishing poles to school-aged children. Good idea, says I: give the kids fishing poles so that instead of spending their time in front of a television set all day (I'm sure there's nothing good on in europe anyway) they can spend their time sitting by a stream catching fish. Enjoying nature. Becoming one with the spirit of the wilderness. NO! says PETA. The basis for their complaint? Studies have shown that fish feel pain. Oh, wait, no they don't. Oh, wait, who fucking cares? They're fish. We fucking eat them. End of fairy tale. If they didn't feel pain, killing them wouldn't be much fun anyway. Here's how I see it: if I don't catch a fish and eat it, savoring each succulent bite, perhaps with a bit of lemon butter and a dash of basil. Mmmmm. If I don't eat it then some bear is going to do the same. And I guarantee the bear will be much less humane than I would be. Bears eat fish while they're alive, just tear the head right off as it flops about gasping for water. Well, so do I, but most people don't eat their fish that way. Most people are pussies. And if the scaly bastard isn't ripped fin from fin by a hungry bear, it will probably die from swimming about in all the pollutants I've dumped in the water over the years. So what's worse? Killed and grilled by some kid with a donated fishing pole, eviscerated by some stalking predator, or consumed by chemically-caused cancer? I think we're doing these fish a favor by killing them.
PETA protests the indecent use of donkeys in carrying Palestinian suicide bombs in Israel, outraged by the fact that donkeys, or asses as I prefer to call them, have no choice in the matter. Um, what about those who died in the donkey-gut splattering blast? I bet they lined up for days like so many middle-eastern Harry Potter fans waiting for Rowling's latest book just for a chance to be impaled by shrapnel from a homemade explosive device. Silly Israeli's. But they're right, animals have no choice, and that's the way it works. Animals are food, plain and fucking simple. You don't give your brussel sprouts a choice, do you, Mr. PETA man? Yeah, I'm talking to you, hippy tree-hugger. Do you? That's right, you don't, fuck nut.
And so I make animals a part of my complete breakfast. I enjoy waking up each morning to break my fast on a good, USDA-approved meal. Start with a few plump sausages, steaming hot. And by sausage I mean pork sausage, none of this turkey sausage nonsense. Poultry is for vegetarians. Add to that a side of bacon, Canadian and American; a big slab of ham; perhaps a pork chop or two; a bowl of cocoa puffs with ground beef sprinkled on top; a slice or two of toast... oh, and a stack of waffles smothered in meat syrup. It's a family recipe.
These long-haired animal protectionists whine that veal is mistreated. Veal is put in a box, not allowed to move, and force fed. You know what? They're right, that is an outrage. I'm outrged that I wasn't offered the same. I wouldn't mind having my food brought to me as I sit in a climate-controlled contraption. You can even eat me at my prime. No more shamefully incontinent geriatric period. You know what mistreatment is? A thankless, nine-to-five job, student loans and ever-increasing cable television prices. That's mistreatment. And, like the animals, I have no choice. If I don't work, I don't make money. If I don't make money, I can't afford my drug habit... I mean rent. That's a chain of events even a cow could follow.
You may think me insensitive, but I love animals. Especially roast beef and glazed ham. They are magnificent creatures. I love steak, too. But it's got to be rare. If it's not pink in the middle, it's not a steak, it's a goddamn roast. That's how commies eat their meat. When I cut into a steak, I want to see blood squirt out and hear an agonized 'moo'. My meat should be done such that if I were to put a Band-Aid on it, the cow could just get up and walk away. In fact, don't even cook it, just warm it up a bit for me.
I am all for freedom of speech. Everyone should be allowed to voice their opinion, no matter how stupid it makes them look, but these PETA fuckers are trying to take away my inalienable right to eat meat with every meal. I did not fight my way to the top of the food chain so that I could abstain from consuming the flesh of lessers beasts. No, I clamored and clawed my way up from the very bottom as a toothless infant with many predators. At that time my only prey was pureed fruits and vegetables which grew conveniently in little glass jars and delivered themselves to my mouth on a small spoon that made airplane noises. From that humiliating tier on the chain of life I made my way to the top. Now I am a strapping young man waiting to sink my fangs into living flesh. I wonder what hippy tastes like.
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