Carl’s chopped-up carcass is put through interventions of steam, organic acids, and scalding water to reduce levels of bacteria. His pink and shiny corpse is then electrocuted again to improve the tenderness of the flesh.

At this point, as if it couldn’t get any worse, Carl gets frozen for forty-eight hours before he is hacked into prime cuts—first split in half, then quartered.

But that’s not enough. No, sir! Not by far.

What remains of the once noble Cow King is processed further to make sure all of his flesh is sucked from his body, a process with the ironic name of “advanced meat recovery.” We can’t leave any part of Carl behind, you can bet the farm on that!

His bones are sent to a rendering plant, and pieces of his body are sent to distribution centers all over the country. These centers then provide them to the retail market.

Then to you.

So.

How was that hamburger?

Did you get it from McDonald’s?

Burger King?

Perhaps the grocery store, and then you grilled it at the neighborhood barbecue where you were forced to socialize with Jeffrey from next door, who got drunk yet again and made a move on your spouse. That bastard.

Regardless of where you got it, chances are you just ate Carl. Carl, a cow who only wanted to love his precious Jennifer and eat and poop and die at the old age of twenty-three.

Horrified yet? Outraged? You should be. This happens to nine billion animals every year in the United States. That’s more than there are people on this planet! Where is the righteous anger? Where is the unending fury? These plants and facilities are essentially our version of the Holocaust (Cowshwitz, if you will, and don’t give me that look, you know it’s true!) and we must fight back! We must rise up! The madness must stop!

So, think of that the next time you have your dark and monstrous cravings. Think about how you are taking part in a long line of murder. It has to stop. And it can stop with us.

So, rise up with me, brothers! Rise up and—

“You would think,” Bear says from the front passenger seat of the car, “that after living with him for almost twenty years, I’d be used to hearing these things by now. It’s sad to learn I’m not. You just had to wait until we already ate, didn’t you?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “That’s what you get for stopping for fast food. Think of all the cancer you probably have now. Not to mention the back fat.”

“Back fat?” he all but howls.

“The worst kind,” I say gravely.

“There was nowhere else to go! And they had salads.”

“Covered with chicken,” I say indignantly. “Do I need to tell you the story of Jermaine the rooster and his love, Lupita? It’s positively riveting.”

“Twenty more miles,” Bear groans. “We’ve come three thousand miles, and I’m going to commit murder in the last twenty.”