In Life Imitating Blog News, I came across PETA's latest attempt stop people from eating those poor, defenseless (but awfully tasty) critters chronicled here, PETA Smokes the Big Crack Rock.
So I felt cool for just a moment and then I realized that, to PETA, I am the enemy. I am the great meat eating majority. The side that just can't see or understand or give a damn about PETA's agenda.
I kept on walking, right past the beggar with the reversible sign that said, "Blah, blah, blah" on one side and "Yadda, yadda, yadda" on the other. How's that working for you, pal? Good? No, I don't have any change for you, fuck off. I'm too busy watching the pretty people pretend like their going to do it.
Which, of course, makes me wonder, do they have adequate facilities somewhere nearby for the guy to, um, relieve his sexual pressure? Five or six hours of having a boner and no release makes them balls turn a wee shade of blue, no? But I'm sure that's better than eating meat, right, Ingrid?
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