Meat is murder


I don’t really understand my friend Geoff‘s love of meat.

I understand his love of tea, for he is barely human without tea.
But he so rarely eats meat. Sure, sometimes he eats animal bits in amongst the floor-scrapings and protein-extract that make up his breaded faux-meat dinner, but he so rarely has bacon, or steak, or a proper roast.
He’s finicky about his tea. He demands it be Tetley, and he demands it in a mug, and he demands it often. And yet, he is blase about his meat.
I can only hope that the sight of this moose, freshly shot, even more freshly skinned, will awake in him an understanding of the true glory of meat.

Were that to happen he might start cannibalising his staff.
Which would work in my favour.
For then I could regain my old job, and once again cook him meat that deserves to be called meat.
Meat that moose below would be proud to be.


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