It was the first time in journalism history that the headlines were written with glitter. The expensive kind. Newspapers the world over spared no expense spreading the joyous news to the public; financial difficulty be damned. And the public rejoiced, they ran screaming in the streets, tears of joy and relief pouring down their faces. Every news station on television and radio, every newspaper, every Internet feed reported the very same thing:

Little Billy was dead. Nobody was quite sure how it happened, but as a rather guilty looking man threw a frisbee off an exceptionally high cliff in an attempt to persuade his neighbour’s annoying chihuahua to get better acquainted with the local sealife, he noticed the well preserved body of a little boy floating vertically in the ocean. After a rather frantic call to the coast guard – who, it bears mentioning were unamused by the chihuahua’s background commentary – a search and rescue team confirmed the death of the well known anti-hero. They considered being mournful for a shade longer than two moments, then whipped out the balloons.

Death, for those who have not vacationed there previously, is followed by a view of a long tunnel with a bright light at the end. After walking through the tunnel one enters an elevator with no buttons. Good people are gently raised to heaven. The bad are raised as well, but only as a joke. Once their spirits are sufficiently lifted the floor of the elevator disappears and perdition takes over.

Little Billy, oddly enough, found himself at the back of a long queue of people waiting to enter heaven. The administrative staff at heaven’s door were processing a huge backlog of the recently deceased. Suffice it to say that Little Billy was quite busy during his last days. Nonetheless, he did qualify for entry into heaven, for the laws of entry contained a loophole which he qualified to exploit: children are technically considered “innocent” and are granted entry regardless of their mistakes.

The scene was less than pleasant. While nobody wished to risk their entry to paradise by causing a fuss, almost everyone seemed intent on ensuring Little Billy got a hairy eyeball full of their most nasty stare. Little Billy however, quite unaffected by the glares of his more recent victims smiled serenely at each glowering face, often greeting them by name and asking if the knife in the back was really as painful as it looked, or reminding them just how delicious they tasted with the right combination of condiments.

The queue slowly shortened bringing Little Billy ever closer to the gates he so dearly desired entry into when finally, after what seemed like an eternity in his breathless anticipation, he found himself face to face with a rather sour looking doorman who seemed none too thrilled with allowing Little Billy passage. He examined Little Billy’s file and scanned and rescanned the regulations hoping against hope that some by-law perhaps had been passed recently which would work in favour of heaven’s inhabitants, but to no avail. And finding none, he unwillingly stepped aside revealing behind him, the beauty of paradise.

And there they stood. Santa with his crowbar standing beside Rudolph holding a flame thrower and eagerly awaiting Little Billy’s arrival. The tooth fairy carried a butcher’s spoon, very large and very blunt so as to really hurt when cutting through bone. And behind them stood an army of cows, udders at the ready, waiting with mad, gleeful expressions on their faces for their tormentor’s arrival. Little Billy’s victims gathered in their vast numbers, each seeking their heavenly wedgie of retribution.

Little Billy smiled his most delicious smile; the one his soon-to-be persecutors were all too familiar with, and a shadow of doubt crept over the waiting horde. He smiled serenely, looking left and right at the angry but confused faces staring back at him, then turned and ran as fast as his little legs would carry him towards the elevator, the armies of heaven pouring out in their multitude behind him, pitchforks ready and torches lit. Little Billy hammered at the closed doors, kicking and screaming for them to open; Santa almost at his back, the rest of the crowd a field length behind. And fate – glorious fate – shone down upon the little anti-hero once more. The elevator doors parted to reveal a kindly old gentleman, a look of sheer relief on his face for the eternal bliss awaiting him. Little Billy ducked to the ground tripping up Santa, causing him to crash into the old man. Little Billy grabbed the crowbar and stomped on Santa’s jolly belly time and time again until finally, with Santa screaming for Rudolph to use the flame thrower and end his misery, the floor gave way. Little Billy clutched onto Santa’s beard and rode the fat man down the elevator shaft, leaping off at the door to the tunnel and prying them open with Santa’s crowbar of doom. The crowd screamed their rage from above and Little Billy, the smile never leaving his face, caught a whiff of flame grilled Santa before speeding down the tunnel, back the way he came.

The cemetery was cold and dank, a heavy frost settling on the graves, soaking the ground. An ever louder crumbling noise shook the night air and the plump grounds keeper peered into the darkness for the source of the disturbance. He neared the grave of the infamous boy so despised by so many and for a moment, he felt a pang of sympathy for the deceased child who, despite all the wrong he may have done was, after all, just a child. Little Billy’s hand leapt out from the grave and grabbed the grounds keeper’s leg, clutching on with a vice grip. The poor man screamed blue murder into the thin air where not a soul heard his pleas for help. And Little Billy crawled back to life, that most delicious smile on his face, the grounds keeper at hand and just a hint of flame grilled Santa dizzying his senses.

They were talking about global warming on the news again. The last segment was about a hurricane. Little Billy flipped the channel only to find a documentary on obesity. Turning to the newspaper he found headlines of natural disasters, murders, suicides and general portents of doom. Even the Internet didn’t have any words of comfort. The message was clear: the end is coming. He must prepare for the worst.

And so it was on a rather mundane Thursday that Little Billy contacted the local human trafficking agency and placed an order for a portly Asian man of non-specific nationality. The agency in question prided itself of prompt service, the result of which being that Little Billy found himself with a new neighbour a few hours later.

The Asian gentlemen was perhaps the most confused. He’d answered an advert in the local newspaper (of his country) for a position as a foot model. Strangers had often stared at his toes which he took to mean something praiseworthy; it had never occurred to him that flip-flops were hardly considered suitable attire for accountants in large corporations. Nevertheless, he appeared for the photo shoot promptly and was conked on the head with a large frying pan and shipped to a foreign land. He awoke bound and gagged in the living room of an old house. The would-be modelling agents towered over him and instructed him – on pain of death – to eat well, forget about exercising, never leave the house and never open the curtains, all of which the plump man was most willing to do. The kitchen was exceptionally well stocked after all.

Armageddon arrived not long after. And as Little Billy predicted chaos ensued. Riding his tricycle through the city, Little Billy observed people running through the streets killing everything in sight, and nuclear explosions in the distance signalled the beginning of the demise of the human race. As the days wore on, the stench of death filled the air. The dead bodies of all living things – humans, plants and animals – littered the streets. Before long, nuclear winter had consumed the planet and threatened to last a millennium. All was doomed.

The doorbell rang and the now substantially portlier Asian man waddled to answer it. He’d never had a visitor and was rather anxious to find out what all the ruckus outside was about. Also, Winter seemed to be carrying on much longer than usual and like all people, he desperately had the urge to say to another person: “Cold isn’t it?”. He opened the door as widely and as welcomingly as he possibly could and stared out at the remains of a fallen planet. Before even registering the devastation that lay before him, Little Billy jabbed the portly gentleman in his sizeable belly with a stun gun and turned the setting to high.

It was difficult getting a good fire stared but Little Billy managed it after a few tries. The portly man woke to find himself once again bound and gagged, this time to a large metal pole. Little Billy hadn’t bothered shaving the man; the fire would remove the hair anyway. Skipping to the kitchen, Little Billy returned with a bowl of marinade after adding some potato chips to the pan on the stove. He gently lowered the pole over the fire, slowly and steadily rotating it to allow for even cooking. It was his very last meal at the end of the world, and he planned to savour it.

Le Bunny took a long drag of his cigarette and turned up the volume on the CD player, the wind blowing through his fur as he sped down the suburban back-roads. The effect certainly had the potential to be uber cool had there actually been a CD in the player – and if anyone asked why he was listening to nothing at the loudest possible setting, he would have spouted on about the frivolous and arbitrary nature of popular culture, and how he would much rather be a non conformist. The truth however was that his hearing had deteriorated considerably and he considered “philosophical rebel” to be a much cooler social status than “deaf bunny”, but he would never admit it. He pressed the accelerator and watched the speedometer inch higher when rather suddenly, he ran over quite a large speed bump. Looking in the rear view mirror, Le Bunny saw a little boy lying spread-eagled in the middle of the road, apparently dead.

Le Bunny brought the car to a screeching halt, his heart pounding. The boy in the rear view mirror still hadn’t moved; he was definitely dead. He considered calling the police, but there was no explaining why a bunny was driving a car. “Yes officer, I locked my owner in the cage and force fed him lettuce and carrots until he exploded. Then I borrowed the keys to the family car. The fat git had it coming.” He knew if told the truth he’d fry. Then probably be served with a side of baked potato and mushroom sauce. The thought of it made him lick his lips, it had been a while since he’d eaten. Regrettable though it was, he would have to quickly leave the scene. He hadn’t meant to run over the child, but he couldn’t face these consequences so soon after he’d won his freedom. He shamefully pressed the accelerator again and cast one last fleeting look in the mirror. The boy was gone.

Little Billy’s parents always told him that much more could be achieved by being polite. “Good manners”, they said, “will earn you the respect you deserve”. And so Little Billy had asked the voices in his head (yet again) to please stop telling him to do bad things. He’d always asked politely but they never seemed to listen, and so it was on an otherwise normal Tuesday that Little Billy attempted to silence them once and for all by stabbing them with a fork. Fortunately his parents were much too miserly to purchase good cutlery and the damage to his head was minimal. Feeling rather despondent, he strolled down the road – the fork still sticking out of his head – when he saw, quite oddly, a bunny driving a sports car with the most extraordinary music playing at full volume. He ran towards the car to waved frantically for the bunny to stop, but the voices had told him to stand in the middle of the road while waving and moments later, Little Billy had the most spectacular view of wheels running over his face. The voices chuckled for a bit as he lay there unconscious, poking fun at the expressions he made while being run over, then decided it was time for a late lunch.

Le Bunny sped onto the motorway and followed the quickest road out of town, hoping to leave behind the dreadful memories of his time there. He refused to look into that rear view mirror; he knew that would only make him remember. He didn’t want to remember. The speedometer refused to go any higher, the car raced forward as fast as it possibly could. Despite every attempt not to, Le Bunny glanced at the rear view mirror and Little Billy smiled from the back seat, the fork still sticking out of his head. The car swerved out of control, Le Bunny panicking at the wheel, causing the vehicle to flip over time and time again, the voices in Little Billy’s head screaming with laughter as loud as they could and enjoying the ride.

The engine caught fire shortly after the car came to a halt slowly sizzling Le Bunny’s thigh. Little Billy calmly climbed out of the passenger window, remarkably unharmed. He quickly dislodged the fork from his head and aimed it at the grilled thigh. No sense in wasting a good bunny.

He-Man was one of my favourite cartoons back in the 1980s. Of course back then every cartoon was my favourite and little has changed since, but I digress. He-Man was the hero of that particular cartoon and as all heroes do he had an arch rival, a loathsome troublemaker named Skeletor who, as you might have guessed, is the subject of this article.

There comes a time in peoples lives when they feel the urge to settle down and replicate themselves. It has something to do with biological clocks; I suspect mine is faulty. So one bright sunny Sunday – I’m stating Sunday as though this is fact when really, this is just a guess – one bright Sunday a little bouncing baby boy is born to two loving parents and they feel their lives have instantly changed for the better. They adore their little bundle of joy and shower him with love and affection. And decide to name him Skeletor.

Really, what chance did poor little Skeletor have? From the get-go the child was being subconsciously programmed to be evil. His life would start out fine, and he would learn to respond to the name Skeletor. Later, while still a very young child he would learn about skeletons. Skeletons are a bad sign; pirates use the skull and cross bones to warn peace loving folk they’re about to have an unpleasant day. When people die, their flesh rots away until all that’s left are their skeletons. Serial killers murder their victims and the news loves showing the remains of the poor victims’ skeletons if the opportunity arises.

And in the middle of all this turmoil sits innocent little Skeletor. Skeleton. Skeletor. He was bound to notice the resemblance sooner or later. He was named after all things unpleasant; after death, pain and suffering. So despite growing up in a loving, nurturing environment, when faced with one of those few critical, life altering decisions we all face at one time or another, it should come as little surprise that Skeletor chose the path less followed and rebeled against the hero rather than chose to be the hero himself.

On some random Thursday – and once again this is a guess, the actual events may just as likely have occurred on a Monday – on some random Thursday little Skeletor arrives home after ballet class and informs his parents that he’d like to be ruler of the universe when he grows up. Consequently, rather than be a productive member of society – an accountant or something of the sort – he would much rather dominate all life and exact harsh retribution against all those who dare to oppose him. And if possible he’d like to begin his career by microwaving the family cat.

Naturally his parents would be devastated; their hopes of him attending some prestigious university dashed in an instant. They would likely try to convince him that being evil isn’t, well, good, which little Skeletor would see as opposition to his plans of domination and would thus result in the untimely elimination of his parents; a social faux pas of the highest order.

And so Skeletor’s life would slowly snowball into oblivion. Society would attempt to exact vengeance upon him for dispatching his parents which would make him an outcast. His only friends would likely be chosen from those handed a similar lot in life and Skeletor’s criminal career would formally being, and soon be a thing of legend.

It’s little wonder then that Skeletor was He-Man’s nemesis. And quite frankly, with a name like Skeletor, what else might one expect?

I was riding to work early the other day when a few places in front of me was a van belonging to a wholesale butchery called “Meet the Meat”. It was one of the funniest names I’ve ever heard of, and serves as the inspiration for this little story.

One might easily imagine a dark alley; the kind typically associated with shady drug deals and spicy Korean food. The patter of hooves could be heard in the distance, each one bringing the beast closer. Standing under a street light, a sheep glanced cautiously from one side to the other ensuring he’s alone. He wore an Armani suit, minus the pants of course. Stylish dark glasses told casual observers both that he’s up to date with the latest trends and that money really is no object. In one hand he carried a leather briefcase, a clear sign he’s indifferent to the suffering of his cow cousins. Confident he’s not being followed, he stepped into the blackness and knocked on a door at the far end.

The door opened silently and the sheep stepped into a darkened room. He wasn’t nervous; everything had been prearranged. The door shut silently behind him and a soft click informed him that he’s now locked in. The lights flickered briefly before illuminating the room, a bare dank hovel with little more than a table and 2 chairs.

Little Billy sat at the far end of the table. Also an Armani fan, his appearance was quite striking, though much of the casual effect he’d hoped to achieve was lost when one noticed his feet were nowhere close to touching the floor. The sheep sat opposite him and for a moment they stared one another in the eye. Without a word, the sheep placed the briefcase on the table and pulled out several papers. Little Billy scanned the documents briefly and smiled. Everything was in order. Little Billy removed a slip of paper from the inner lining of his jacket and slid it across the table. The sheep did not seem pleased but nodded curtly, indicating his consent.

They rose quietly and headed to the next room. Condiments lined the shelf covered walls and a heated pan lay in the middle of the blackened coal stove. The calm lining of the sheep’s face began to crack and for the first time he seemed to be little more than a frightened sheep, not the cool, calm and collected businessman the world saw. Wrapping a towel underneath his arms (or forelegs you prefer), the sheep turned his back to Little Billy and, while trying to preserve what little dignity of his remained, he removed all traced of wool from his body. Little Billy retrieved a fork and knife from a nearby cabinet and pondered for a moment over whether mustard would suit the occasion better than the conventional Worcester sauce. Eyeing a juicy thigh, he decided both would be required, but for different courses.

A harsh bleating pierced the still night air. The sizzle and smell of fresh meat whet the appetite of passers by, rousing their carnivorous instincts, making them yearn for flesh. And Little Billy ate wholesomely before drifting off to a peaceful sleep.

Little Billy waved his magic wand reciting the incantation that had saved Harry Potter from the dementors so many times before, yet for all his practice, nothing happened. He’d read all the books and watched the movies, he’d studied the folk lore are memorised all the spells that made Harry Potter and his friends heroes of the wizarding world, but after much tireless effort Little Billy seemed no closer to casting his first spell. And time was running out.

The school yard bully had challenged Little Billy to a pistol duel at high noon on the third Wednesday after the Winter solstice. Little Billy wasn’t quite sure when that was precisely, but was assured by his friends that he would be dead before the end of the week. Being a practical sort of chap Little Billy assumed the bully was exaggerating, but his doubt effortlessly dissipated on Tuesday at high noon, when a pistol duel in the playground resulted in the untimely death of a student.

The entire affair seemed rather odd quite frankly. Little Billy had woken early that Tuesday morning, readied himself for school as usual, kissed his mother goodbye and headed off to catch the school bus. Lessons were as boring as ever followed by lunch; a little before midday. All the kids headed to the playground when suddenly the school bully announced the duel would take place for “grievous and unjustified insult cast against his God fearing soul.” The children had stopped their games and rather confused by the accusation but excited nonetheless, they quickly gathered to observe this new development.

Shackled and obviously terrified, a little girl of perhaps 9 or 10 years old was being led by the art teacher to the middle of the playground. She quickly turned her head left and right, her gaze darting to each of the children staring curiously at her. When without warning she hurled insult after filthy insult at the crowed, damning them to eternal hell fire in language to make sailors blush and spitting furiously at all within her range. Her brown tongue snaked out from between her rotten teeth and even from a distance she reeked of an odour so foul it evaded all description.

On seeing the poor wretch, Little Billy could not help wondering how this all came to be. After all, he’d finger painted with the little girl just a few minutes ago and she seemed perfectly normal. Being the curious sort he was, he asked a nearby teacher to explain this sudden and rather unexpected turn of events, but was told to “let not the evil ways cloud thy judgement. She be of heinous upbringing, and deserveth is she of the cleansing torment of death. Heil Bully. He is the way.” And once again, the medieval rantings and 18^th century attire of the school staff didn’t quite fit with this time or place, but not wanting to be an unnecessary bother, Little Billy helped himself to a handful of rotten vegetables (which were suddenly available in wooden pails when he’d turned around), and joined the rest of the crowd in pelting the evil child.

It was only a few minutes before she’d been ushered to the middle of the playground where the school bully leaned casually against the see saw, picking last night’s supper from his teeth with a sharpened chicken bone. He stood a little over 6 feet tall and bore battle scars from the various wars he’d served in. Playground gossip said he’d been forced to leave school early and before long was recruited into the Gulf war back in the early nineties. He’d later served as a mercenary in South America and finally got into drug trafficking for the Columbian cartels. It was only a year ago he’d decided to pick up the tattered remains of his life and live on the straight and narrow, starting by continuing his education. But having never completed primary school, he was forced to continue his schooling in Little Billy’s grade.

The righteous headmaster served as mediator. The little girl was handed a water pistol; after all, the school took the safety of its pupils very seriously. The bully was allowed to choose from a selection of well maintained automatic weapons and settled on two AK-47s and a few hand grenades. Technically he also carried a hunting knife which gave him an advantage, but the headmaster ruled he could keep it, but would not be allowed to use it unless the knife was thrown. Civilised conduct prohibited both hand-to-hand combat and close range stabbing.

Standing back to back, the little girl and bully took 10 paces away from one another, pistols in hand. With the crowd watching nervously, the headmaster instructed they turn and fire.

It was a close thing, but the bully had proven the better. The little girl’s body was buried on consecrated ground and she was marked absent for the remainder of the school year. She never did progress to the next grade, and served as a constant reminder to all students of the danger of absenteeism.

Little Billy wasn’t quite sure what it was that he’d done to insult the bully, or when for that matter, but the gun smugglers were delivering another shipment as school ended for the day and the school gardener was seen collecting the less edible vegetables. The woodwork teacher smiled at Little Billy before measuring his height, then worked vigilantly on the coffin. More than a tad worried, Little Billy returned home and explained the situation to his parents who simply stated that “fair is fair”, to which Little Billy had no response.

And so, after learning little from the Chuck Norris marathon on television, Little Billy turned his thoughts to the boy wizard who’d suffered so much and triumphed against all odds and placed his last hopes on magic. His eyes closed wearily repeating yet another incantation, dreading the coming day.

It occurred to me earlier this evening while riding home from work that quite simply, Dracula had rather foul smelling breath. And this probably applies to the majority of, if not all vampires.

Vampires, unlike other monsters, have the distinct ability to be cool. And that applies regardless of whether you prefer the more traditional Le Stat, or are a devoted BtVS groupie, or even are in love with the oh-so-girly Edward Cullen of Twilight fame. Now I personally wouldn’t group Dracula into the cool category, but that’s more because he’s into frilly suits and greasy hair which makes him look like an investment banker from the dark ages, but I’m sure his fashion sense qualified him as cool back in his day. Also, I’ve always found him rather dramatic; the original emo kid with a chip on his shoulder. Regardless, he certainly holds his own.

Which of course is the exact opposite of what one might think if one saw vampires whipping out the Colgate every morning and brushing with a soft but firm circular motion for a full five minutes. The plain and simple fact of the matter is that it’s hard to appear dark and mysterious when you’re caught using mouthwash after drinking your victims dead. It’s even worse for the classically cool to be seen flossing after nibbling at the neck of some poor cheerleader. Oral hygiene and vampires do not make an attractive pair.

Hence, we arrive at one of two conclusions. On the one hand, we may strip vampires of their uber-cool status and cast them to the pit of mediocrity like we normal folk. On the other, we may allow them the ability to look and act cool, but smell quite the opposite. Which naturally implies that all forms of subtle seduction one may hope to experience when in the presence of such creatures will either involve nose plugs, or simply not occur at all. Halitosis is nature’s own mood killer.

And so alas, reality has once again reared its ugly head and killed off all hopes of me ever being uber-cool. I simply refuse to stop flossing.

It was just last week that I was chatting online to a South African friend of mine who’s currently studying in Germany because, despite all the fancy technical jargon she uses as excuses for studying abroad, she’s really only there because the Germans have larger microscopes. Which is particularly vexing since she’s not a particularly large person herself, being only smidge bigger than those little handbag poodle monstrosities Paris Hilton is always carrying around.

Nevertheless, our conversation drifted off to things she’d been doing in her new country and she mentioned a chocolate shop she’d discovered that even sold chocolates made of sheep milk. And it suddenly occurred to me that I never knew sheep milk existed. In hindsight it makes perfect sense that sheep would of course produce milk, especially for their newborns. Come to think of it, most species produce milk, even humans. But social conditioning usually prevents us from considering the possibility of a farmer running around squeezing ladies’ breasts in an attempt to feed his family; a social faux par of note! So that, combined with our exposure to mostly cow and some goat milk completely – until that online conversation with my friend – impaired my ability to realize that the world of sheep milk existed.

Given this new information, the world as I knew it before my discovery of sheep milk suddenly seems very strange. In such a world milk would still be required for the new born sheep, which of course means that farmers would milk their cows and then hand the buckets over to the sheep. It’s unlikely the farmer would conceal this fact from any of the animals, meaning of course that the cows would first watch each other being milked, then watch the sheep lounging out in the sun on recliners and slowly sipping the cow milk out of the farmer’s pails with bendy straws.

The difference in social standing here is quite apparent, and in a sense very similar to human social structures. The cows represent the working class, with the sweat of their udders (and I mean that quite literally; I still don’t understand why people don’t consider milk to be internal cow sweat) serving to sustain the higher order animals – the sheep. The sheep of course are clearly the supermodels and rock stars of the farming world, what with their bendy straws and recliners and woolen sweaters. The farmer I suppose would represent some form of communist government in this little equation, who takes from everyone and distributes resources as he sees fit, but that’s not overly important in this story.

Still, day after day the poor cows would watch their precious milk being given to the sheep, always resentful of the fact that while they – the cows – do all the work, the sheep reap the benefits. The air would quickly become thick with the smell of hatred and before long murmurs of revolution would likely be heard as the cows plot revenge and an overthrowing of the imposed order. I’m not quite certain how this next part would occur practically, but in my head at least, the cows slowly start smuggling AK47s and land mines into the farm, obtained from other revolutionaries in North Africa. The sheep of course would be blissfully unaware of imminent danger, and take to using hair gel in their wool so as to achieve odd looking styles, much like human teenagers do these days when they make their hair stand up and point in different directions. Apparently the electrocuted peacock look is the latest craze.

And then the catalyst: a young, innocent sheep would take his pail and stroll past the cows, blowing bubbles in the milk or perhaps make a few slurping sounds. The cows would lose all sense of reason. The careful plans of revolution would be forgotten and, incensed by a sudden wave of fury, the cows will grab their weapons of war and open fire on all sheep, massacring all within their sights. The farmer and his family – all of whom were unaware of the festering resentment – would unfortunately be caught in the cross fire as body after body would pile up on the blood soaked farm land until when the sun finally set, only the cows remained.

At sunrise the following day the cows would of course milk each other and plan to meet their new future with exuberance; full of hope that finally justice has prevailed and like the ungrateful, undeserving sheep before them, they too will now lead lives of luxury. And so they would toast their success and prepare to sip their life-giving milk – only to realize that it was the farmer who supplied the bendy straws. And for the rest of forever, the cows would outwardly celebrate their freedom, but internally grieve their defeat, for they would never be quite as content as the sheep once were.

But of course that’s only if sheep didn’t produce any milk, which they do, so everything’s right with the world just the way it is. Which is one great result of my friend studying in Germany.

It was a little after midnight when Little Billy stared out his window, rifle in hand, preparing for the coming doom. He’d been too young to remember the turn of the century, but his parents often told him stories of how, come year 2000, all computers would malfunction and rise up to rid the world of humans. And so to protect both themselves and him, they stock-piled ammunition, re-located to a remote island devoid of all technology and trained Little Billy to shoot anything that moved for his own safety.

Rather unfortunately, but quite accurately nonetheless, Little Billy was responsible for the death of both his parents several seconds after receiving his orders, as his father patted him on the back, and his mother ran away in horror. Little Billy did notice himself move in the process, but after blowing off a pinky toe decided that perhaps his parents were less than truthful.

Nevertheless time passed on and Little Billy grew ever more lonely, forgetting the exact words of his parents but remembering the shoot first and ask questions later policy that was key to survival, unless survival required movement. He never did manage to reconcile both those thoughts.

And so it was a little after midnight on February the fourteenth that Little Billy saw an adorable baby cherub with wings and a bow and arrow fly by his home, wondering if a little more love might be spread in the world. Smiling serenly, Cupid snuck through the window of Little Billy’s bedroom and giggled at the lovely mischief he occupied his time with. When naturally, Little Billy opened fire from his command post, well camouflaged high up a coconut tree, and shattered the bones in both Cupid’s legs. Noticing the bow and arrow, Little Billy took aim once again, destroying any hopes the baby had of flying away, or ever using a bow and arrow again.

It had been many years since Little Billy had grilled steaks for supper. After all, the island was rather small and Little Billy was an excellent marksman. So he savoured his Valentine’s meal, of course unaware that it was Valentine’s day. And people all over the world rejoiced for never having to see the annoying, nude, flying baby cherub ever again.

For those of you who may not know, the food chain is a sort of hierarchy of edible beings, where those higher up in the hierarchy get to munch on those further down. Human beings are rather fortunate in this regard since we happen to be at the top of the food chain which means that, as a species, we can munch on anything below us, from goldfish to weeds and everything else. It’s a pretty sweet deal overall – for us, not the goldfish.

Which is why certain types of vegetarians make no sense to me. I once knew a girl who chose to be vegetarian because she simply didn’t care for the taste of meat. That makes sense to me. Other vegetarians do so because they abhor the cruel conditions animals may need to endure before being slaughtered and ending up on our plates – another reason I’ll accept. The bit that really gets to me though, are those who choose to be vegetarian (or possibly vegan) because they consider it wrong to destroy or harm life.

Well geez, last I checked, carrot sticks and lettuce were alive too. Interestingly, so are mushrooms, apricots, beans and broccoli and virtually everything that not just humans, but most animals eat as well. I stand corrected, but I think mountain goats suck minerals out of rocks, so they’re on my list of exceptions, unless of course they get together on the weekends and cook little bunnies.

The typical response I receive when I mention this sort of thing goes something along the lines of “but plants can regrow”. Sure. So why not slice off a portion of a cow’s rump, marinate that with a few spices and grill it all just enough so that it’s still juicy when you eat it? After all, if you cut off just a bit, the cow is likely to regrow its flesh anyways. It’s what we do to plants after all.

For some odd reason, I recently visited PETA’s website and saw an invitation for everyone to join up and become proudly vegetarian and this, combined with the various other articles I’ve read and stories I’ve heard of how guilty I should feel when applying the BBQ sauce to my steaks have prompted this little retort. I’m all for the ethical treatment of animals. It’s not like I spend my free time squirting mustard on live cows to make them wonder how long they have before they face the chop. Nor do I support the idiotic killing of animals just for their fur. But geez, we’re top of the damn food chain so if I’m cold and starving and see a cute little furry bunny, I’m gonna score me some steaks and a new pair of gloves dammit!

The point of this little rant, very simply is that you’re at the top, so enjoy it. And if you’re so loving and caring that you cannot find it in yourself to harm even a single living thing, then stop being hypocritical and stop eating fruit and vegetables as well. And before too long this rant won’t be needed anymore.