Categories
Commentary

Makes Me Want To Beef Binge, Just Because…

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An old friend recently tossed this depressing article on her Facebook page….

http://www.attn.com/stories/1632/why-you-should-think-twice-about-eating-beef

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.

hippy-vegetarians-329Remember 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. 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 that’s a lot to blame on a burger.

It is rare from 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, Salmon in declining and mostly factory farmed, and I can’t even think the word “vegan” without giggling. (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 the people who grow it can’t afford to buy it and are starving. 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.

But I digress. The obvious solution is the forced sterilization of vast hordes of third world folks (including a wide swath of the American Confederacy) 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 258 days a year. It’s the economy of scale that gets us–I can buy half a cow from Liz & Malcolm (although I don’t understand what to do with a lot of the strangely shaped cuts), who pretty much just let the beef wander around their property for a couple years before (Chuck makes slicing motion across his neck). Maybe that’s the solution? Don’t know a farmer? Eat seeds and twigs.

Categories
Commentary

What? Rain?

This photo looks joyous. In truth, the young lady is surrendering to the inevitable, biding the rain gods to do what they will. The bastards. I don’t like to whine, but–are you kidding me? Less than a month ago, the following article ran in my hometown newspaper. I’ve never met this guy Quigley, but I blame him for what has happened since his little drought warning.

http://khum.com
http://khum.com

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weather sucks

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Uncategorized

More Snow Headed To Georgia–Tourism Idea

Not to put too fine a point on it, but another winter storm is casting it’s Winter Weather Atlanta.JPEG-05108frosty eye on Atlanta as it blusters it’s way across the south, promising as much as .75 of an inch of snow and a mere 40F as a high temperature–time to run for the grocery store and stock up on toilet paper, bread, and milk. (that’s an old Pittsburgh joke you probably won’t get, but so what….)

snowmiserIt occurs to me that the city could make a small fortune in tourism revenue sponsoring “flash tours” at such times by selling affordable package deals to northerns who would likely pay good money to watch the carnage while savoring the relatively balmy weather.  They already have the infrastructure–the only thing missing is some bleachers down by the highway for when the Snow Miser comes to Southtown, even though it’s in his brother’s clutch.

winter
Hey, Atlanta–this was my freaking weekend. Want to swap?

I guess I feel bad for being a winter bully–especially if (when?) someone dies down there, but it’s hard to take this seriously–probably in the same way that some guy from Death Valley is bemused when we have a “drought,” the rich folks have to stop watering their lawns, and we can only wash our cars on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  I truly believe in this plan.  The rare southern businesses to stay open will make a killing, and the municipalities can use the additional revenue to, I don’t know, buy a second snow plow or something.  This makes me wonder what people in Calgary are thinking.  Hell, Minnesota is like this ten months a year–only it’s -40 degrees F, not the balmy 0-10 we’ve been seeing.

I heard God apparently told some guy in Decatur to build a massive 12703_650365338358467_1109895274_nbobsled and fill it with a pair of every creature (starting with Lolo Jones)….

*All kidding aside, as the storm is poised to strike, here’s all the luck and best wishes I can summon to Atlanta and the rest of the South. 

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Fiction Excerpt Uncategorized

West From Chicago…excerpt from another old story

*this is the final excerpt from what I’ve called the “big truck” series–an abandoned, unfinished road trip novel I lost interest in 17 years ago and recently revisited.  I added it partially in response to posts by our friends over at the excellent Great Plains Trail blog–where they’re building something awesome.  The Great Plains are remarkable, and filled with beauty and wonder both magnificent and subtle, but all that open land always strikes me as a little spooky, a sentiment that carried over into the following passage

From the hive he drove straight on, stopping three hundred miles in, when the fuel tank approached one quarter.  Standing tight-shouldered and shivering at a self-service pump, feeling the fuel surge through the hose and into the truck, a tangible exchange of power, perched on the edge of unending Iowa, he looked out on hard gray fields frosted soil and stubble pierced here and there with copses of Imagetrees clustered  about tiny empires of tidy framed houses, barns, and outbuildings: feudal kingdoms of maize, wheat, and soy.  He wondered what sort of paradise it would be once the trees donned their canopies; but something about the flatness of the land unnerved a young man who had spent the relatively few years of his life traveling far, but only in latitudes, only up and down the broad, fecund spine of the Appalachians and the lands that separated those ancient mountains from the sea that once lapped at their flanks.  Too young to fear death or need great favors, his musings rarely turned to the protestant God who had perched, predatory, above his childhood, but he thought it chilling that in the great exposures of plain and prairie, there was no place to cower and hide and cringe-that God could reach down to smite and scatter and howl vengeance unimpeded by mountain or foothill or cliff.  And indeed He did, Hart realized, needing no great powers of concentration to recall the droughts and floods and blizzards and twisters that ravaged the region in biblical justice, almost ritually scourged and scoured the Midwest.  He supposed that these were the prices exacted for the privilege of living in the long, flat shadow of God.