Morning flight to New York, my seat marinated in thousands of colony forming units per square inch, I breathe recirculated eructations from a menu of two and four-legged miracles of evolution that need no purpose but to be sliced thinly, and sealed tightly in plastic, for the minty fresh mouths of the decent and God-fearing. Tell me, what justification scheme simplifies years of nurtured growing into all-natural Bacon? Is it our all-natural superiority to every doomed creature that is not human? Compare an animal kill shelter to the hillsides where a future farm-to-table dinner stands, as I stood on vacation, taking in the same world, and feeling like I am thinking, but what is thinking if I do not understand? What is the carcass merit of a five-senses being, raised to be farted into the seat of an airplane, while I scroll through stories of saggy faced Republicans on my smartphone? Who are you to judge the hipster farmer who, while lovingly raising friends who warmly recognize him, calculates their dressing percentage, drop credit and twelfth to thirteenth rib marbling?
