The Cow And I

Intolerable Cruelty

When I was 5, I committed an act so monstrous that it haunts me to this day. Now, thirty years later, I still recall every detail of my transgression. The story involves my family dog, Fritz.

Fritz, bless his heart, was born with a number of physical irregularities, most visible among them a lopsided set of testicles.

One afternoon, I had inadvertently discovered my father's spark gun for his gas grill in a cabinet I was never intended to access. The precocious child that I was, I not only found the spark gun but, in the sick recesses of my adolescent mind, immediately found an unsavory and altogether inadvisable use for it.

I decided to test the device on Fritz.

While my boyhood friend dozed in the warmth of the morning sun, I slinked up behind him and set gun to testicle - the healthy one. The trigger pulled back with an audible click, and a short burst of electrical current was discharged into my dear dog. Fritz, in his bewilderment, jumped up and yelped. Oh, how that must have hurt.

Witnessing his helpless pain, I immediately realized what a monster I had become in that moment. And I was deeply ashamed. I couldn't even look in the mirror for days. What made it worse for me, though, was the fact that Fritz had such a miserable life to begin with. In addition to his imperfect masculine anatomy, he was born with a kidney dysfunction that allowed him only the occasional meat treat. The vast majority of his meals were canned vegetables. A far cry from the live flesh torn from prey by his wild-dwelling ancestors. This dog's life was not the picture of contentment, I realized at the time. Knowing this, however, I had nonetheless bumbled along, without a care, and shocked him in the balls. After that, I pray to God, but highly doubt, that I will be allowed into Heaven.

I find myself reprising this childhood role today. And it fills me with self-loathing. BeefStakes started out as a lark. Let's see how much beef we can eat, I thought. It's easy, fun, and painless.

Not so. I have relentlessly nipped at my opponent's heels, forcing him to choke down meal after meal after bloody meal of beef. Thus far, he has consumed over 34 percent of his body weight in beef. He will undoubtedly consume more. Given his slight build and family history of cardiovascular disease, this was something nature clearly did not intend him to do. Which makes me, in my intolerable cruelty, a willing accomplice to his self-destruction.

Guy started out looking somewhat normal:

But things changed rapidly. For the worse.

The signs are plain to see, and have been for over a month now. First, there was the photograph depictly his fingers nearly gnawed to the bone - this was surely an indication of anxiety.

But I didn't stop there. No, the thought of his mental anguish only spurred me to goad him into eating more. Soon, his photos showed him in a state of half-dementia, eyes bugging, threatening to roll back into his head.

My hounding of this dear friend was clearly taking its toll on his mental health. Oh, the cruelty.

And finally, as he was most recently photographed celebrating the passing of the 20kg threshold, the signs of serious physical deterioration have started to manifest. I noted a perceptible puffiness about his face, a sallowness to his eyes.

The beef he consumes, almost constantly, has begun to toxify his system. I can only imagine that, soon, he'll announce a suspension of his campaign due to pronounced kidney failure.

So it has come full circle for me. This revelation prompts serious self-examination. Indeed I wonder, in the 30 years since I set spark to balls, whether I have become any more human than that loathsome troglodyte masquerading in a child's body.

When I ask myself this question, I dare not gaze into the mirror, as what may be staring back is as empty, and soulless, as the abyss...

Posted by eric at March 18, 2004 08:36 PM