Thursday, February 17, 2011

Meat is Murder!

As much as I adore most violence, especially murder. As much as I believe that brutality is the most shamed, and therefore simultaneously the most adored, art-form within human culture. And much as I am almost endlessly enchanted by the same violent conceit, time and over again, (lo, how I revere being both witness and cause to the moment a soul knuckles under). I choose to be vegetarian. Usually.

You see, as I do not leave The Lab, and I habitually and brutally assault anyone who enters my space, I am forced to foster my own sustenance in an enduring manor. Thus 'The Lab' is a very large and diverse permaculture. In addition to grasses, of which I grow a bountiful amalgamation, I raise both nut and fruit trees, foul, ruminants, veggies, vines, and fungi. These crops tended by me, and this land, of which I have stewarded for millennia, produce enough bounty to fill not only my grain-hungry paternal stomach, but my second and maternal veg-and-dairy coveting gut as well. I therefore do not need to eat the flesh of any creature. Usually.

It does happen, every so often, that any semi-demi-god-like-mythological-beast/creature such as 'The Minotaur' must eat some meat. There are two such regular meat eating occasions in my life. I think the English word is “holiday”.

Holiday One: I receive my bi-annual supply of sacrificial humans. I simply must eat the leaders before their subordinates or there won't be enough terror and fright in the atmosphere. I find freshly pulled organs most unrivaled in both taste and effect, and I devour them with ill-informed intensity- no matter how foul or shit-stained they may be. Often I swallow them in front of their still-breathing hosts. Blood runs between my teeth like the rivers of over-ripe strawberry, and I laugh on the outside while I curse and wax demonic, intimidating and killing. Meanwhile, on the inside, I cringe.
My guts both bovine and sapien are not pleased with my holiday choices. This type of meat sears and churns inside my stomachs. My Grandad! The people fear me and know they will die soon! Yet they would die later after much more dismay if my guts would not need emptying from both ends so frequently and urgently. Cursed be my love of human trepidation and mortifying drama, and more cursed may my fragile grass-desiring innards be for denying me full the realization of my terrible performance.

Holiday Two: Bacon
I maintain a sounder of free roaming, predatorless, old growth pigs. The sows are often thousands of pounds and the sounder's boars can challenge me in combat. I let them range free in the lab, they are happy and elusive creatures. On occasion, I will manage to both find and take a full size sow. As I butcher her I focus on the preservation of her belly meat. Once cured this cut of meat is most delicious in and on almost anything and will awaken my carnivorous glands daily. I can use its residue oils to fry eggs or root crops. I can use it as a shortening, a dessert, an appetizer, a frosting, a bait, a snack, a smoothie, a mini-meal, a spice, a hair product, a natural or artificial seasoning, a vitamin, a lip-balm, a lubricant, a leather polish, etc. Yet for all this, I sympathize with the poor sows and take them most sparingly and respectfully.

Bacon be cherished: I am a simple vegetarian Minotaur.