I am a carnivore.

That is, I like to eat meat. Beef, preferably. I’ll settle for a pork chop or a rack of pork ribs if need be, but I prefer beef. Steak. Roast. Even beef ribs. Rare. Bloody rare. When the waitress asks how I want my steak, I tell her I want it so a good paramedic can have it up and mooing inside of three minutes.

So – today at the deli, one of the tasks was to slice up a couple of rare beef roasts for roast beef sandwiches. The slicer (a mean, fast, horribly powerful model that gobbles up five pound blocks of cheese or ten pound turkey breasts and spits out perfectly sliced results every time. the blade is twelve inches across and sharp enough to take off a finger tip before you feel it) has a habit of throwing small chunks that didn’t quite slice correctly back at the operator. I’ve worn face masks of provolone, muenster, swiss, turkey, even ham. Today was going to be a first, and I was, in a sick and weird sort of way, looking forward to it.

That is, right up until it started happening. I forgot to factor in the B-grade horror movie aspect of the result. There was just something about having red meat chunks flinging at you that can be a mite unsettling, especially with congealed fat and chunks of still-cold blood mixed in. After slicing ten pounds of beef, Chef came back to pick up the pan. He took one look at me and said “Nice meat mask.”

It was not what I had thought it would be like.

Quick reminder – BlogTalkRadio, Friday Morning, 0700 Mountain Standard Time. The “O” Word – and this time, I’ll have the microphone plugged into the right jack!

Chat ya later…

Thank you for stopping by, In GOD We Trust, God bless you all, don’t buy or breed cats or dogs while homeless pets die (spay, neuter & adopt a pet, one by one, until there are none), Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!