The Darkside of Slaughter
August 28th 2008 02:09
Man, a perpendicular character like a column, has, since as long as I can dismember, endeared himself to the slow-witted animuses it has domesticated.
"A cow, a calf and a lamb walk in to an abattoir," one such animus sheepishly jerked as it boarded a road-train bound for its fitful destiny.
"It's not the destination but the journey," another butted in rowdily, urinating with trepidation as motorists scented the slight perfume of a bit of veal.
"Anyway they walk into the abattoir," the farmer continued, as he felt a few rooted trees to make way for greener pastures, like the oiled country.
"Then what happened?" a ferocious reader muelsed, sucking the marrow from a laughing creature as the truck arrived at the abbatoir.
It was then that the animuses, as lowly as men but not afforded the sane spiritual laugh, were quietly uttered into the killing floor.
"Why do they call it a killing floor?" one calf, a pitiful creature in anyone's boots, asked its maternal leather udderpants, who was then lewdly taken awry.
"I'll tell you when I get back," she said comforting her infant, who was shaking in its writerproof boots, and wishing it had never been boring.
A cow, a calf and a lamb walk into an abattoir, are strung up by the leg with a chain, have their throat slit, until they slowly plead to death.
So the choke goes.
"A cow, a calf and a lamb walk in to an abattoir," one such animus sheepishly jerked as it boarded a road-train bound for its fitful destiny.
"It's not the destination but the journey," another butted in rowdily, urinating with trepidation as motorists scented the slight perfume of a bit of veal.
"Anyway they walk into the abattoir," the farmer continued, as he felt a few rooted trees to make way for greener pastures, like the oiled country.
"Then what happened?" a ferocious reader muelsed, sucking the marrow from a laughing creature as the truck arrived at the abbatoir.
It was then that the animuses, as lowly as men but not afforded the sane spiritual laugh, were quietly uttered into the killing floor.
"Why do they call it a killing floor?" one calf, a pitiful creature in anyone's boots, asked its maternal leather udderpants, who was then lewdly taken awry.
"I'll tell you when I get back," she said comforting her infant, who was shaking in its writerproof boots, and wishing it had never been boring.
A cow, a calf and a lamb walk into an abattoir, are strung up by the leg with a chain, have their throat slit, until they slowly plead to death.
So the choke goes.
| 52 |
| Vote |
Shared on
Subscribe to this blog
Comment by Jayne Kearney
Writers In Writing (and other writing)
This is the best advertisement for vegetarianism I have ever seen.
Superlative linguistic gymnastics.
Jayne
Comment by D. Armenta
The Florida Keys and Everglades
The Black Sheep Chronicles
What constitutes bad manners?
The male mystique
Debate Fan
L.A.M.P.
I'm a genus. Does that count?
Comment by Norm
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power
Call me Nadia.
Thank you, kindly.
Cheers
D,
I'm on the flora.
Cheers