Figurative beads of sweat pepper the steak’s interior as it sizzles upon the grill, understanding nothing, as its tissues contain no cerebral cortex. No brain, no wits, just a slab of meat. Lifeless, tender, able to be thrown about a hundred feet by anyone willing to try. Skip gave it a whirl just last week, earned himself fourteen dollars for the effort. After it was all finished, he said his rotator cuff was acting funny. He didn’t think the cut of beef would be quite that big. He plans to sue the cow for negligence, as it failed to be there to tell him what the butcher did to its sirloin. Irregular cuts of beef are costing this nation an arm and a leg. Why it was just yesterday that Milly kicked a floppy old flank steak and twisted her knee on the follow-through. This entire situation is getting out of control, and nobody’s stepping up to take charge. This meaty menace has gone from the butcher’s block to the murderer’s rampage, and there’s not a man, woman or child with the guts to stop it.
WHARVED 