Via LawDog, I find out that yesterday was "Meatout 2006", a day for the more shrill-voiced of the tofuista set to sanctimoniously proclaim the virtues of a diet that mostly seems to cause whey-faced complexions and an inordinate fondness for black turtlenecks. Not being properly forewarned, I was unable to do anything to uphold the honor of my team beyond the bacon cheeseburger I had for lunch, unlike Phlegmfatale, who managed to celebrate the day with a trip to a Brazilian-style steakhouse.
I admit it: I am not just carnivorous, I am almost belligerently so. When a friend took me to the old Eat Your Vegetables restaurant at Little Five Points in Atlanta, I (after making the gaffe of asking to be seated in the smoking section) appalled her by asking why there were no meat items on the menu. After all, most nicer steakhouses have vegetarian entrees to accommodate the herbivorous, so shouldn't the grass-eaters reciprocate on their turf, since they're all about the tolerance and everything? In revenge, I took her to a place not known for overly aging or marinating its beef, so that my big ol' rare filet bled all over my plate like a Wes Craven flick, causing her to be visibly distressed and me to snicker on the inside. On another occasion, I was out shopping with the same friend and found that a cajun joint that had opened at the Perimeter Mall food court served crawfish. Delighted, I wandered back over to the table with a big basket of them, and made her squirm by holding two-way conversations with the yummy little mudbugs as I ate them. (I had to provide their end of the chatter, of course, in a Mister Bill-esque voice.) When she pointed out the squeamish teenyboppers at the next table, I couldn't resist making the little crustacean in my hand wave its claw at them before sucking its brains out. They left. Quelle dommage.
Remember, kids: Meat is murder.
And murder tastes good. :)