A corpsearian is a person who has the unusual habit of eating animal corpses. They give cheery, often ethnic specific and easy-to-remember names to their found-object "food" choice, in order to lighten-up the fact that they are chewing on a dead thing. Names like "pulled pork", "Buffalo wings" and "side of beef" abound in the corpsearian community. Where they come up with these names is anybody's guess, but they've done pretty well in creating and promoting wordlike memes to semantically disguise the obvious.
Corpsearians - not your father's hippie minority group - can be counted in the billions. Literally nillions of people seek out and eat the bodies of other animals and call it "normal". Is it any wonder that every now and then an eyelash of a horse is found sticking out of a chicken breast? Or a bone is left on a plate, and people in the kitchen actually have to look at it? A bone! We are getting into some strange down-the-rabbit-hole territory here, folks. A place where gentle cows and intelligent loving pigs are strung up on hooks with their insides hanging-outside and their red stuff can be seen slow-dripping all over the place, causing quite a sticky mess on the slaughterhouse floor, which yokels then hose off.
The dedicated corpsearian, in short, belongs to a hive-mind and an exclusively-gouted community occupied by people who purposely put a deceased thing in their soup. A twilight zone where people smash their humanity-button and sit down with a friend to actually put a corpse into their mouth! and chew on it with their teeth! Don't tear out your eyes just yet, you're going to need them.
How the hell did this lifestyle start???
Well way back before time began, and people had to be polite to foreigners, an elderly mentally-ill man, the kind you see hitchhiking and lock the doors, found a piece of a recently dead giant sloth and started gumming it. After gagging and upchucking the guy did something totally counter-intuitive: He put the corpse back into his mouth! Holy Christ dancing with Anne Hathaway on a pogo stick! Was this guy even thinking or was he so addled with the stupid that he thought he was chewing on a really disgusting mushroom?
The next thing you know other people, even the untarded, copied this clown. Then, sensing there was big money in the practice, both retarded and slightly-tarded people who had the selfish-gene started to profit from it. Making money on death quickly became a norm. Soon, with the proper advertising, almost everyone was chewing and gumming and upchucking on what they now were calling "meat", an ancient term previously reserved for food in general.
Well, these guys could have named it Kwanza and it would have gone over just as famously. It was humanity's lucky day when the end of life for one living being was redefined as coin-in-the-purse for another.
And they keep on doing it!
One reason corpsearians laugh in your face, spitting someone's innards all over your best suit in the process, is that the corpsearian community has thousands of socially accepted role models. Movies, television, and other civilized, televised, and sanitized watering holes portray corpse eating as an everyday practice among starlets, heroes, and sports figures. Fans in the cheap seats chew on the spine, fat, and gristle of a fellow mammal before the big game, politicians serve the stuff during their State Dinners in the hope of catching more donation (a strange form of wildlife which they seek above all others), and cute little itty-bitty children use their cute little itty-bitty hands to stuff the bloody fat-filled flesh of another formerly-cute animal into their cute little itty-bitty mouths. There was even a true story once that the Polish Pope of all the Catholics, the holiest of the holies, Pope John Paul the Great Himself, was about to celebrate his 80th birthday. He had a big party, and requested that lobsters be served. Live lobsters, thrown into boiling water, to feed this "holy" guy and his crouching minions on his birthday. "Blow me," the lobsters would have said to this devil in a dress and penis hat if they could only speak after crawling down the aisle to attack this "man of peace".
Brahmins are the uppity-up tippity-top uppity-toppity upperly-mobile/crusterly of the Indian caste system, and hundreds of thousands if not millions of them run around playing the proper East Indian while in the prescence of their ladies, who they often mistreat in private as if they all have a "Kick Me" sign taped to their backside. But vegans and other hippies say that these women - and many of the abusive men - cook the finest food in the whole wide world! Why? Because they are all vegetarians! An entire caste of uppity-up tippity-toppity people who have never eaten what corpsearians call "meat". Why do you think they're dancing around smiling in all those east injun movies? Happy as clams in the sea and not in me.
One Brahmin gentleman who played pollywolly-doddle all day long with his lessers was Mohandas Gandhi, a fellow who gave a wide berth to meat. Just like the hidden-to-history civil rights movement champion, James Bevel, who used Gandhi's best techniques and then added to them to create the major movements of the 1960s, Gandhi credited his non-corpsearian diet with fueling his ability to do nonviolent movements. Mohandas Gandhi hitched up his loincloth, tied a piece of rope around Britain, and single-handedly hauled it out of India. This gave rise to the modern Sanskrit saying "If you can't eat 'em, loin 'em."
Not for long.
Nine Hundred Million corpse march
Chickens and shrimp and turkeys and pigs and ducks and salmon and possum and crabs and lambs and deers and cows and snakes (snakes?) and crayfish and pigeons and locust and monkeys, every day they march from the forests and pens and meadows and oceans straight into refrigerators, ovens, woks, and grease pits. Their corpses are then taken out from wherever they are kept like treasures and they soon find themselves on plates where forks and knives do their dirty work. And then more animals magically "show up" to do it all over again the next day.
Where have all the flowers gone? Into the mouths of every-one. When will they ever learn? Right, that's gonna happen. Serve me up another rainforest, mister, and make it snappy.
In order to give death to creatures and lay a positive spin on the term "butcher", humans improvised a death-heavy song-and-dance bit and came up with large warehouses where red is this season's "in" color. Named after their inventor, Enos Slaughter, these abodes of mayhem, mucus, and fairy dust (or are those entrails?) are like a giant mousetrap where cattle, hogs, and sheep are the mice, only with more bulk, longer tails, and enough skin to fill a warehouse.
Holiday Corpse Frenzies
For many "normal" people a seasoned animal corpse lying dead on a plate brings back fond memories of dinner with mom and dad, a sunlit picnic with an object of desire, or of that first visit to the local fast-food outlet for a Happy Meal. Pure childhood bliss encased in ketchup, mustard, pickles, and sesame seeds sprinkled on cheap bread and innards. Which psychologically sets-up a bloody lifetime of bloody feasts of bloody animal parts soaked in animal juice humorously called "gravy" - or, in the case of squid, in its own ink.
On Thanksgiving, Americans honor the historic day that the invading Europeans bonded with the red man. A feast of turkey - an intelligent bird that the Indians thought of as one of their three holy birds - ensues. Now, in today's generation of second-hand-sadists, the dumbed-down birdbrains are fatted up so much that they are unable to move more than six inches in either direction - much like Al Gore. They are then packed thousands to a pen in the most uncomfortable of housing facilities. But enough about the Indians. As for turkeys, have you ever met one in the wild? Lean and quick and ready to go toe-to-toe with both you and your big brother. That's why they were considered holy by the natives, something you'd never guess from looking at what's become of their tortured lot. Good work corpsearians, now maybe you can start on the eagles, the other white meat.
We now arrive, like stalker Scrooge looking in the window of Tiny Tim's house, at everyone's favorite holiday feast - a Christmas dinner of steak served "rare" and running ruby red with inside-juice juice. Taste the sinew! The best parts of female bovine all chopped up and seasoned, and the worse parts made into hot dogs and sausages. Baby Jesus himself would eventually be conditioned to feel comfortable chewing on the fatted calf and smiling like a retard at his mom's home cooking. For this is Christmas, a time to love your neighbors, to communicate with the dead, to sing of peace and joy, and to mercifully block out the silence of the lambs or the screams of the main course with some beautiful holiday music.
The Joy of Extinction
Alas, the one observable drawback of corpsearianism - except for the avoidable loss of prairies, forests, topsoil, and oceans, all destroyed to grow food for the soon-to-be-led-to-the-slaughter "food" to use as food - and its never-ending bloodfeast trend is that things disappear rather quickly, just like the entrance to the tunnel of love maze which is this paragraph. Take oysters or tuna, please!, or take the great epic tragedy of the Passenger Pigeon - quite recently the most common bird in the skies, then the most common bird served with fries, now "I think I saw one in a museum once, with my own eyes!". Whether flying through air, roaming grasslands, or floating on their backs in the water, both the extincted and the domesticated are always portrayed as just looking for the chance to enter stomachs other than their own. In truth, they themselves are tricked, jumped, and bagged when they least expect it, such as when they're chewing their cud or poking around something.
Corpse eating, an extinction level fad, has gone a long way to help most humans bypass the pesky liberal myth of evolution. Pretty soon elephants and lions and such won't be here to kick around anymore. Even turtles and chimps and gorillas can't hold their breath long enough to avoid being the last of their species. Appetites and fast food franchises being what they are, these soon-to-be former members of the animal kingdom will soon go the way of the dodo and the sooner they pack their bags and get off our planet, the better.
The Wimpiness of the Long-Distance Vegetarian
So many people have eaten corpses, and then become unnecessarily-early corpses themselves, that the ground is full of them. The cycle of life for most humans is thusly shaped like a circle - a fat circle in most cases - with birth at one end, corpsearian in the middle, and then, you know. Never in the history of mankind have so many eaten so many. A few people have gone wimpy and stopped chewing burnt fat and charred organs, including Mike Tyson, Bill Clinton, Madonna, Paul McCartney, and maybe a hundred others.
It pains this page to even include these losers who stopped eating fleshcake, but the fairness doctrine and all those libel laws in Britain and Australia demand it. The vegan hippie thugs over at Greenpeace who stir up trouble instead of stirring up a steaming dish of whale/platypus surf-'n-turf try to demean those of us who would rather rub a chicken breast than any other breast. Vegans are served best by moving along quickly and ignoring their insane ravings.
The other side of corpsearianism
Beware, gentle reader, for even the most ardent truth-seeker may resile from the horrors to be described below. It is (almost) universally acknowledged that not only are people reluctant to eat something the closer it is in appearance and behavior to themselves, but that the time energy and excess emotion expended advocating for not eating such things seems proportional to how attractive (i.e. "cute") we find it.
It is no surprise that there are many who, religiously applying this principle, not only eat the corpses of plants, but assert their moral superiority by doing so. They are deaf to the appeals of botanists, who plead for the genetic similarity of plants to animals, and tearfully describe the silent agonies of the uprooted bok choy and the beheaded artichoke. However, as plants don't make a great deal of noise (unless you happen to be within earshot of a falling tree) those corpsearians of the gentle plants can smugly point to the more reliable fuss made by the average dying animal as proof of their enlightened natures.
Yet the tortures visited upon plants by the average vegetable corpsearian would see the typical slaughterhouse locked and shuttered were such atrocities committed within. The tender bean sprouts, crammed in their millions into body bags while still alive, barely emerged from the seeds so hopefully grown by their parents, shoveled into the sanctimoniously grinning maws of these fanatics. Worse, those generative organs, those ripe seeds that are crushed for their vital fluids, or gnawed to pulp by the teeth in those mouths. No meat grinder shreds as fine as the whining engines of juicers, their prey fed alive into the whirling blades to be sucked by the vampires of vegetables in the hope of a few more months of life brightened only by the consumption of their uncomplaining victims.
True holiness, in this regard, is only attained by those Archeans and Prokaryotes that dwell in the inhospitable crevices, slowly prying their livelihood from the lifeless molecules around them. Perhaps Mars will prove to be the abode of these saintly microorganisms, a place uninhabited by corpsearians of any kingdom.
- Does "pork" even refer to the rump or the ankles, or is it worse than that? Make mine a double!
- Come on, you gotta be kidding me. Do you think people are that confused?
- Although heart whippings, brainfuck tennis, strokes, and other popular ills do a number on about fifty thousand of them a day.
- Tongue in cheek, literally!
- Babies have to be taught to chew on corpses, they usually get sick and their body rejects the poison the first time around the bases. Silly pussy whipped babies (literally)! Man up!
- a.k.a. Profit-motivated conscience-lacking peer-pressured lackey-created print or broadcast broadsides with more than a touch of larceny) and the know-how to make you upchuck money like your pocket was a glory hole.
- Every seasons, actually.
- Happy for who bucko, happy for who?
- I saw one in a museum once, with my own eyes!
- An animal is born, humans decide to eat it.
- Brought on by acute protein starvation, no doubt. Silly vegans, they are missing out on the very best part of life]].