Wednesday, February 23, 2005
A soccerball in the groin, a kick in the pants, a fly in the ointment, a dead skunk in the middle of the road, stinking to high heaven. It is a proof that when things go out of balance, when every brain-damaged Bambi fetishist who thinks that rats have as much right to nibble on baby humans in their cribs as humans have to eat a nice juicy hamburger can somehow land a puff piece in the newspaper of record, as if they had something intelligent to say, when things reach their tipping point, then if you pay attention a solution will present itself. At the bottom of the heroic cycle, when everything is at its darkest, when Luke Skywalker is about to be killed, suddenly they Holy Grail, the Force, the Elixir of Life makets itself evident. And the hero is now prepared morally, intellectually, and with the right tools to take action against a sea of enemies and set things aright. The hero marries the queen of spring, overthrows the tyranny of the old, and becomes the kindly new king of summer. Meanwhile the PETAns sneak back to their vegan spider-holes, watch, and wait for memories to fade, for people to forget what phools these PETAns be. For people to think that maybe, just maybe, this time PETA is right. As if!
As if! As if my ass were a surrealist masterpiece by Salvador Dali.
Here's the truth about PETA.
[Being] animal rights activists gives disillusioned feminists an excuse to go back to being women protecting wee creatures without compromising their radical credentials.
Eat a burger. Enjoy your life at the top of the food chain.