by RIP RENSE
THANKS FOR GIVING
(Nov. 22, 2007)
Ah, thanks for giving! That should be the
cry of the wild human
today, for the millions of turkeys who have gobbled their last gobble. And
if you think turkeys donít know they are being dispatched to
heaven/hell/reincarnation/The Void, youíve never been to a turkey farm.
empty-headed avians---slave cousins of the wiley, crafty, noble wild turkey
(originally proposed by Ben Franklin as our national bird)---are smart
enough to smell blood. Or their turkey DNA is. They know something is
coming, and it ainít more antibiotic-loaded corn. They know it is not
freedom, either---which in their cases amounted to a life of funnel-feeding
and standing in crowds so thick you canít move---topped off by being stuffed
in cages and carted off to a hang-from-your-feet conveyor belt for murder.
IT'S BACK! THE ANNUAL RIP POST THANKSGIVING POEM!
But hey, taste buds! Chow down! Youíre eating animals that were
slaughtered with broken wings and legs, bloody open wounds, tumors and all
kinds of festering, untreated injuries. Mm-mm! Youíre eating birds
that have been punched and kicked, just for fun, in the good olí
slaughterhouse, whose sex organs have sometimes been plumbed just for a
laugh by um, playful employees. Youíre eating birds that in some cases had
their heads physically ripped off, just out of esprit dícore, and, well. . .
Turkey Abu Ghraib.
Thanks for giving,
Right. You donít want
to hear another animal rights anarchist Anti-christ fascist pig commie
America-hating bastard ingrate ranting. Turkeys taste good! They are an
American tradition even older than Madonna and Larry King. I like Ďem, too,
especially when someone puts a
carcass over their head
in a movie, or when the
Three Stooges cook one that suddenly flies off the table and around the
room. But I donít like the fact that 250 million---250 million---of them are
grown for American gullets, and honestly, I donít think many other people
really do, either.
Then there are the nine
billion chickens. . .
John Lennon wrote what I
think was a well-intentioned but embarrassing would-be feminist anthem years
ago called ďWoman is the Nigger of the World.Ē Uh-uh. Animals are the nigger
of the world. Just look at China, where the cuisine is Anything That Moves,
and The Rarer It Is, The Better it Tastes. Iíll have my rare civet cat
medium-rare, please. Oh, and waiter, more
tiger-dick stew! I need harder erections to feel more manly so I can
have male child! Uh! Uh! Hsieh-hsieh! The human race has risen on the
backs of animals (almost literally), and the human stomach on their flesh.
China currently in the lead.
Thanks for giving,
My brother has often observed that the humanity will never
succeed until it evolves to the point where animals are treated with
kindness, and I think heís right. How ironic that all those
pictures of heaven
that little kids grow up seeing in Sunday School books show people and
beasts coexisting beatifically. Say grace, children. ďThank you, father, for
this burned dead cow and and baked pig butt and roasty birdy we are about to
masticate, dump into a burbling bag of sulphuric acid, and eventually
excrete. . .Amen.Ē
But we are omnivores.
Kirstie Alley alone
proves this point. If it's meaty, it's a treat-y! The thing is, you can
get all the nutrients you need---quite deliciously---from things that do not
think. Probably including Paris Hilton, who I hear tastes like chicken. And
whatís more, youíll feel better and look better. Ask longtime confirmed
vegan Ringo Starr, who despite a near-fatal stomach problem as a child and a
few debauched decades, is in
at 67. The point here is not that the Joseph Stalinizing of the Turkey Race
is absolute madness, cruelty, waste---which it is---but that it is just
plain unnecessary. The Pilgrims and the Wapanoag certainly never envisioned
250 million hot turkey dinners when they
sat down at Plymouth.
Of course, the Wapanoag and other native peoples didnít envision going the
way of turkeys, but thatís another story to not think about at Thanksgiving.
Thanks for giving,
250 million turkey
dinners. Letís see. . .So that should produce maybe five billion pounds of
turkey-flavored human excrement. (Thanks for giving!) And they say
arenít creative! At least, I suppose, a few copraphiliacs get a little
diversion out of the deal. Yow!
Look, do you really
want to eat a turkey? Okay, then raise one, free-range, call it Marty or
Jocko, and if your heart and conscience allow, kill it quickly and gnaw on
its limbs and breast and, Gawd hep us, fatty ass. The problem, butterball,
is that itís too easy to go out and buy a frozen Butterball. Your food is as
easily obtained as an iPod, and often tastes even better. This means you,
yes, you, 20-year-old pinhead on the cell phone, chewing gum insouciantly,
driving the Escalade that Daddy bought you for college, buying $150 in
goodies from Whole Foods, get out my way asshole I was here first.
Have you ever grown and picked your own vegetables and cooked them? What?
Vegetables just grow, like, right out of the ground? Cool! No, me
Green Giant brought me all my corn and peas as a kid, just like he
promised on the TV screen, but itís all gotta stop soon. Humans have turned
the horn oí plenty into the horn oí freeze-dried, preservative-doused
gluttony. The horn oí capitalist corporatocracy crapola. Eeek, says the
eco-system. Help, cry the beasts. The Beast himself could not have dreamed
up a more insidious, efficient, gimmegimme method of destroying Paradise.
Thanks for giving, Earth!
Well, this is just
another Thanksgiving Day shoot-the-mouth-off that will have no impact on
anything, except to perhaps annoy a few fast-food-fat-encased readers as
they sit down to fill their guts with guilt-free permission. Thatís the
deal, see. On Thanksgiving, you have permission to shovel just as
much yumminess into your tumminess as you can, you dumminess. Why, itís
practically unpatriotic if you donít. Soon it will be reported that Homeland
Security and the FBI keep track of just who does not buy a hen or a tom.
(Thatís not far-fetched. The FBI
keeps tabs on. . .vegans.)
But then, of course,
gee, everything is sooooo stressful nowadays, what with the idiot
terrorists turning murder into religion, and the idiot Bush administration
turning murder into business, and the idiot media turning murder into
entertainment. Man, itís just murder on the psyche. Whatís wrong with
loosing your salivary enzymes on a couple of pounds of murdered animal and
pumpkin pie? Uurrrp. Fart. Diabetes. It makes ya feel good, and you deserve
a break today, and not at McDonaldís for a change. Plink a few quarters into
the smelly, grit-encrusted hand of a dying bum, if that makes you feel
better. Itís not your fault heís dying. Loosen your belt and contemplate
your massive hairy navel. You could land the goddamn Space Shuttle in it.
I have hope, though.
Really. There is exciting news in the air. In San Antonio and surroundings,
people are all a-twit over a rash of
ďgiant birdĒ sightings. Either giant-birds, or giant man-birds, itís
hard to say. Something with wings ďblacker than black,Ē as one witness said,
and an elongated human-like face, is roosting on garages, and swooping
around mini-malls and ten-gallon hats. Nobody knows what they are, why they
are here, or if they are just looking for directions back to the
Pleistocene. Itís got me wondering if there has been a mutation in the
turkey populace, you know, something caused by the hormones and antibiotics
ionophores in the feed, or maybe gobbling a little too close to a nuke
plant. Thatís it. Maybe the turkeys have mutated into giant intelligent
turkey monsters with big brains, and they have decided to invade and attack
the heart of all guiltless American consumption---Texas.
The birds! The birds!
So there's a little
something for your turkey coma dreams.
Thanks for giving, Rip!
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