Friday, September 4, 2015

Meat the Animals!

Spoiler alert. Seriously. Stop me if you’ve heard this before, but human beings kill animals and eat them. Old news, I know, but at age 7 I didn’t know it. Nope. Hadn’t processed the facts. Hadn’t faced the awful truth. Not that I was stupid. Intellectually …

Stop. Before we get into it, let's set the clock back to the scene of my freaking childhood. 1960s Florida. Astronauts, civil rights movement, Cuban Missile Crisis, Jackie Gleason. Get the picture? Great. Let's get back to how smart I was ...

OK. Intellectually, I resembled the bright, scrawny chicken kid in the Foghorn Leghorn cartoons. Classic egghead. Bright. But no sense of how the world really worked. Take meat, for example. The meat/animal continuum. There's a connection. Obviously. But what? We kill animals and eat 'em, dumbass. No, no, no. It's gotta be something else ...

So, I mulled this enigma over in my mind. For weeks. Then finally cooked up a clever explanation: The meat they sell at Publix has the same names as animals on farms! But the "chicken" that pecks for corn and the "chicken" in Colonel Sanders' bucket are two different things. Crazy coincidence, huh?

Sure, kid. Makes sense, if you think about it.

So I thought about it.

And one fine day, I shared my solution at the Fugate family dinner table. Just sorta blurted it out. Shouting at the top of my voice like Spock in an early Star Trek episode ...

“Hey! Words are funny! Like homophones!"

Little Sister's look said Shut up and die you stupid showoff. Dad, the angry young Southern novelist who actually resembled Foghorn Leghorn, looked skeptical and on sudden high alert, like a boxer waiting for the next sucker punch. Ah, sweet Christ on a crutch. Marty's got that crazed look in his eyes. This is going to be bad. Where in the hell is he going with this? Mom, the beloved teacher, looked impressed. My 7-year-old kid has a 10th grade vocabulary! Yeah, I did. And I knew damn well that Mom and Dad knew what "homophone" meant. But that wasn't going to stop me from telling 'em what they already knew. Before sharing my brainy bullcrap.

"Homophones? That's like ... you know how like sometimes a word means one thing but it also means something completely different? Like, there’s 'orange' the color and there’s 'orange' the fruit. Or lamb. There’s 'lamb' at the grocery store. And then there’s 'lambs' on the farm.”

Dad, cynical Southern philosopher that he was, just sorta looked at me with half-lidded Robert Mitchum eyes from his throne-like chair at the head of the table. You can't bullshit the bullshitter. No, you can't. Dad knew exactly what I was doing. Yeah. Dad sussed me out. Marty's a sensitive soul. On that basis, he's rationalizing the fact that we kill and eat our animal friends. Dad instantly knew it. And he just kept looking at me with those all-knowing eyes …

Then started going, “Hmmm-hmmm-hmmm.” Just this little understated laugh. “Hmmm-hmmm-hmmm.”

Dad’s thinking: Aw, son. You still think the world’s a happy place. Poor idealistic, naive kid. You’re doomed, you know that?


Up to now, Dad thought this scene was pretty funny.  

Hmmm-hmmm. Marty thinks lambs on farms and lamb with mint jelly are two different things. Damn funny, in a cutesy horseshit kind of way. I should sent in the quote to "Kids Say the Darndest Things." Do they pay for that cornball crap? Can I get him to say it twice?

So Dad's chuckling, and adding up the big check from Art Linkletter. Then he suddenly felt the weighty significance of our discussion. The disillusion he'd have to hand me. The dirty looks from Mom. The big stink hanging in the air.

Dad stopped chuckling. Then finally spoke.

“Well, son. I’m sorry to disillusion you. But the "lamb" we eat from the grocery store and the "lambs" on the farm are exactly the same thing.”

I looked at Dad with bigass saucer eyes. My lower lip started quivering.



"No ..."

“Yes. Listen ... Son, I spent a fair portion of my formative years on the family farm. I can assure you from personal experience that meat doesn’t come from the grocery store."


"No, son. Meat comes from animals.”


Dad doesn't answer right away. Just looked at me again. Sizing me up with those X-Ray eyes. Mom's still looking at him, her eyes flashing like Goldfinger's laser: Back off! Don't destroy his sensitive soul, you jerk! But Dad ignored her. Then suddenly leaned in like a scary father figure in a John Kricfalusi cartoon. Got right in my face with his Kirk Douglas chin. 

“Yes, son. Animals. Chicken comes from chickens, beef comes from cows, lamb comes from lambs.”

“Soylent Green is people”
would’ve had the same effect on me.

Dad figured I was ready for the awful truth. But Dad was wrong.

My saucer eyes got bigger. Tears gushed. I started howling like Sam Kinison.

“Agggghhhh! So … meat is dead animals? No! Agggghhhh! We eat dead animals?”

“Yes, son. That’s one way to put it.”

Kid’s gotta face facts sometime, right?

Yeah, I faced the facts. My response was: “Agghhhh! Agghhhhhhhhh! Agghhhhhhhhh!”

Dad, philosopher king that he was and still is, instantly backpedalled. Mom's look of intense hate probably influenced his decision.

“No, no, no, son. You misunderstand me! Farmers don’t kill animals.”

“Yes they do! Agghhhhh! They do -- you said! Agghhhhh! Farmers kill animals and cut ‘em up … and …” Choke.

Like a character in an EC horror comic, I choked before I could get the words out.

So Dad got his words in.

“No, son. No, no, no. Please believe me, son. Please. Look me in the eyes."

So I looked him in the eyes. 

And Dad said ...

"On my word of honor: Farmers don’t kill animals.”

“They don’t?”

Aw, so damn trusting. This son of mine. He'll believe any damn thing I say.


"W-what do they do then?"

"Well. You know how they shear sheep?”

“Y-yeah, dad. Mrs. Roberts. She showed us a film about Australia." Sob. "These -- these sheepherder guys were cutting off wool and stuff with this big electric razor."

"Did they hurt the sheep?"

I shook my head no. Dad clapped his hands in triumph.

“Well, that’s exactly what they do with meat!”

“They do? You mean the farmers?”

“Of course, son.” Trying not to laugh. "Farmers ..."

"You mean ranchers," says my insanely bright little Sister. Five years old. Reading Little House on the Prairie or Cross Creek or some stupid girly book with ranchers in it.

"Well, farmers, ranchers ... "

Sister rolled her eyes and started sulking. Mom did, too. She looked around the table for a Chianti bottle, a rolling pin, or anything she could hit Dad in the head with but not kill him. Nothing really worked, so Mom got up, went into the kitchen and started clattering stuff around. Then Dad said ...

"The point is, cutting off the meat doesn't kill the animals. It doesn't even hurt."

"Why not?" I asked. 

Dead serious question. Really wanting to believe there's no slaughter behind my sandwiches. Just buying this thing lock, stock and barrel. And Dad's happy to sell me.

"Well, son. You see ... Over centuries and centuries, farm animals have been bred to have special meat pouches on their sides.”

“Their sides? You mean … their flanks?”

“Flanks, sides, yes. Well, as I was saying, the farmers cut the meat from the sides ….”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, no, no. It’s just like shearing, son. It doesn’t hurt one bit. In fact, it hurts if they don’t cut the meat off!”

“Like a cow that has to be milked?”

“Exactly, son. Long story short, the farmer -- or sometimes the rancher -- cuts off the meat pouch, sprays on Mercurochrome, and the animal runs off to play. A few weeks later, the animals grow more meat and the farmer or rancher repeats the process.”

“OK. I guess that makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense, son. Hmmm-hmmm. Now eat your liver.”

So that was that. Mom came back from the kitchen. Dad spent the rest of the dinner talking about how that snotnose Kennedy punk was taking the country to hell in a handcart. I choked down Mom’s special concoction of liver and onions. Told myself that it wasn’t a segment of some dead animal. Or Prometheus' organ. Yeah. I believed Dad’s happy story.

But not for long.

Smart little bastard that I was, I looked up “meat” in the school library the next day. The text skirted the issue. “Meat production,” blah-blah-blah. But the pictures laid it all out. Guys with cleavers and bloody aprons. Animals, or what was left of former animals, hanging on hooks in assembly line factories. Smart little bastard that I was, I quickly figured out that Dad had lied to me and handed me a bullcrap story because I was screaming my head off and ruining dinner. The harsh realization finally came ...

Real farms didn’t resemble the happy farms in kids’ books. “Lamb” and “lamb” ain’t like “orange” and “orange.” Lamb the meat is lamb the animal, kid. Meat is dead animals. Farmers kill ‘em and cut ‘em up. Then we eat ‘em. Then you eat 'em.

If this was a happy PC story, it’d end with, “After that, I never ate meat again.” The truth is, I did. And enjoyed every bite.

Unless it's liver.

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Pussy on a Sizzling Iron Skillet

A play in two acts by Tennessee Tuxedo. All rights reserved.

A louche bedroom in a mansion in Mississippi or possibly a Ramada Inn. Night. Sometime in the 1950s. Ceiling fans lazily spin, turning in the wrong direction. Flies cry out for mercy in the grip of Shell No-Pest Strips. Agie the Pussy, a throbbing pulsar of pure sexuality, and Cinderblock, an alcoholic former chess master with a broken ankle and gender identification issues, sit on opposite sides of a Sealy Posturpedic mattress. They study each other, each waiting to make the opening move ...

Agie does.

AGIE THE PUSSY: Why, look, Cinderblock. There’s a stain on my dress. (strips off dress) Oh, that’s better. Isn’t that better?

CINDERBLOCK raises glass, grunts.

AGIE: Oh Cinderblock. It’s Large Daddy’s birthday! A celebratory mood would be more appropriate.

CINDERBLOCK: Hip, hip, hooray…

AGIE: Oh, pooh. You just sit there like, I dunno, some form of masonry or something … an inert hunk of building material, I don’t seem to recall the word. There’s a word for everything, isn’t there?

CINDERBLOCK: Cinderblock.

AGGIE: Why that’s it exactly! How come we don’t make love anymore? Ever since Flipper died …


AGIE: As the case may be. Why, you been moping around something awful.

CINDERBLOCK: (raising glass) Moping and drinking.

LARGE MAMA bursts in through bedroom door.

LARGE MAMA: When you going to give us a baby?

AGIE: Not now Large Mama! (pushing her out)

CINDERBLOCK: Oedipus complex. The one damn problem I ain't got.

AGIE: Oh, Cinderblock. Oh you big hunk of chess-playing man! (kisses him)

CINDERBLOCK: Ew! Girl cooties!

AGIE: (getting up) Fine! Stew in your alcoholic juices for all I care!

CINDERBLOCK: (hooking up IV drip of Southern Comfort) I'm trying, OK?

AGIE: No, it ain't OK! Oh ... be honest with me Cinder! How’d you break your ankle in the first place?

CINDERBLOCK: Ruy Lopez opening.

AGIE: Is that some form of deeply spiritual friendship?

CINDERBLOCK: Chess move. Broke into the high school chess club to see if I still had it in me … and tripped over the damn timer.


POOTER'S ROTTEN CHILDREN: Agghh! We’re rotten children! (to Agie) You can’t get pregnant!

AGIE: Get the hell out of here!

She kicks the children out.

AGIE: Oh Cinderblock. Baby sweetie sugarpie. It ain't like I ain't sympathetic.

CINDERBLOCK: So ... wait. (thinking) You are sympathetic?

AGIE: Of course I am! I know you’ve never been the same ever since that day your index finger unaccountably spasmed and you couldn’t participate in the Mississippi vs. Minsk chess tournament.

CINDERBLOCK: No. Had to watch the big game on TV. Watching Stinker … just fall for that lousy discovered attack. That commie queen came outta nowhere and there was nothing I could do! Nothing!

AGIE: It hurt me, too, Cinderblock. That’s how come Stinker and I made love. Sort of.

CINDERBLOCK: Agghh! Crutch to Queen's Bishop 4!

He swings crutch at her head. Falls.

AGIE: Oh make sweet, sweet love to me, Cinderblock!

CINDERBLOCK: Forced … mate. Stale … mate.

Cinderblock falls unconscious. Agie pokes him with her cute little toe. He remains inert.

AGIE: Oh ... goddamn this sexual frustration anyway! (stamps foot) I feel like a pussy on a sizzling iron skillet!


The same louche bedroom. Night. Later, I reckon. Summer lightning plays outside the screened-in terrace. Crosses burn in the distance. Now the whole damn decadent Southern family is gathered, I forget what their last name is. They're all clustered around a big old birthday cake waiting for Large Daddy. (Ad lib.) The cake is labeled "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LARGE DADDY," in case some sleepy theater patrons weren't paying attention when this was mentioned in the first act. Large Daddy finally bursts in through the long-suffering door.

LARGE DADDY: I’m Large Daddy and this here’s my birthday! Where’s my goddamn surprise?

BIG MAMA: You ain’t gonna die, Large Daddy. Surprise! Happy birthday!

LARGE DADDY: Crap! Get the hell out!

BIG MAMA: Well… I thought you’d be happy Large Daddy …

LARGE DADDY: I am happy! Just cause I’m angry and hollering, why do you assume I'm unhappy? Now go, you sorryass parasites! And take that goddamn cake with you! Crap!

The family leaves, dragging out the cake. Cinderblock twitches on the floor. Large Daddy looks at him.

LARGE DADDY: Not you, Cinderblock. Crap! You can stay.

CINDERBLOCK: (sprawled helplessly on floor) Thanks, Large Daddy.

Large Daddy walks up to his sprawled son.

LARGE DADDY: Cinderblock?

CINDERBLOCK: Yes, Large Daddy.

LARGE DADDY: Let’s you and me talk.


LARGE DADDY: How come?

CINDERBLOCK: Well, sir. On account of you and me talk but we fail to communicate.

LARGE DADDY: Ain't that a line in Cool Hand Luke?

CINDERBLOCK: That ain't the point. You go round and round in circles and you’re kinda boring. That's the damn point!

LARGE DADDY: The hell it is! Crap! Cut the shit, Cinderblock. Crap! I think you got an alcohol problem.

CINDERBLOCK: (raising glass) No problem at all.

LARGE DADDY: Crap! What’s eating you, anyway?

CINDERBLOCK:  Well, sir. I'd always had a beautiful friendship with Stinker of the Platonic and non-Sodomite variety. Stinker’s understanding was a tad different. My wife screwed him silly in an attempt to persuade him otherwise or have a symbolic ménage a trios when I wasn’t actually present ... I never figured it out. The assignation ended badly and Stinker killed himself … or something. It hit me kind of hard.

LARGE DADDY: (opening eyes after nodding off) Sorry, son. I missed that last part. You were saying?


LARGE DADDY: Surprise?

CINDERBLOCK: You are gonna die, Large Daddy. Happy birthday!

LARGE DADDY: Finally, the truth for once! (sniffing) Ooeee that smell! Can't you smell that smell?

CINDERBLOCK: I think so, Large Daddy. Hey ... ain't that a line from Lynard Skynard?

LARGE DADDY: No. It’s the smell of mendacity, that’s what that is. Crap!

CINDERBLOCK: (sniffing) Actually, I think one of the Pooter’s rotten kids took a dump behind the …

POOTER: (popping up from behind couch) Somebody mention me?

CINDERBLOCK: Inadvertently.

POOTER: Hey, Large Daddy. You never loved me.

LARGE DADDY: Crap! Why do you say that, Pooter?

POOTER: Cause you named me "Pooter," Large Daddy.

LARGE DADDY: Fair enough. Crap! Thanks for concealing my impending death, you little shit.

POOTER: You're welcome, Large Daddy! Well. (whipping out papers from briefcase) Now that you know you’re dying, be so kind as to sign these papers and give me control of your estate.


POOTER: OK, then. Guess I’ll see myself out.

Pooter starts to leave. Stops. Turns around.

POOTER: Hey. Large Daddy?

LARGE DADDY: What? Crap! Goddamn it, what?

POOTER: Tourettes Syndrome, that's what. You might want to look into it, Large Daddy.

And now he does walk out.

Sound effect: CRACK of thunder.

CINDERBLOCK: A storm’s coming.

LARGE DADDY: How goddamn dramatic. Crap!

Agie and Large Mama pop up from behind couch. Agie has a massive smile on her face. Where else would it be?

LARGE DADDY: (looking at Agie) Where the hell did you come from? And why are you smiling?

AGIE: Cause I’m pregnant, Large Daddy!

BIG MAMA: It’s a miracle!

CINDERBLOCK: It sure as hell is.

Sound effect: CRACK!

The lights go out.