I seldom find columns at Salon that I can accept.  However, this is one that I applaud wholeheartedly. It’s by Max Lindenmann.  I know nothing about him except—he must be giving PETA fits!  That’s good enough for me. 

I eat meat: get over it

I like to think of myself as an animal lover.  I talk in baby-talk to strangers’ dogs.  When my best friend threatened to have his basset hound puppy de-barked — that is, rendered unable to bark above a whisper via the removal of tissue from her vocal cords —  I threatened to cut all ties with him.  When another friend’s pit bull tried to climb onto the couch I happened to be surfing, I moved over, and ended up spooning her till dawn.  Around my neck, I wear a medal bearing the image of St. Francis of Assisi, who reportedly evangelized to birds and wolves. 

But I eat meat.  Lots of it.  I play no favorites with fish or fowl, white meat or red.  I ask only that my red meat live up to its name.  Unless it oozes blood like a war wound, I feel as though I’ve fallen from the middle class.  As much as I affect to hate all those trendy, angsty vampire novels, the truth is, if I were to run into an actual vampire, the two of us would probably find a fair amount of common ground.  Ditto a werewolf.  “Passing man-kibble must feel like the seventh circle of Hell,” I’d offer, giving it a sympathetic scratch behind the ears.  “ArooooOOOO,” it would answer, meaning, “Sho’ you right.”

That leaves the question: How do I square the two?  Trust me, it’s easy when you hate vegetables.  Actually, “hate” is too dignifying a word; I despise vegetables.  There’s hardly any “there” there worth hating.  The things are mostly water, anyway.  Lettuce and tomatoes may be pretty to look at, but they’re about as insubstantial as cotton candy, only without the virtue of being disgustingly sweet.  Both, along with mushrooms and peppers, make a fine chorus in any comedy starring a half-pound beef patty.  

He continues on in the same vein.  Go here and read it all. It’s a hoot.