*** WARNING ***
If you happen to be animal rights advocate, please skip this post. Return tomorrow!
If you are a carnivore and realize not all meat comes wrapped in cellophane, continue at your own risk. I’ve given sufficient warning. If you are appalled that I post such graphic pictures, just remember that it was your choice to continue reading.
Until I married FringeMan, my meat came from the refrigerated case in the grocery store. Beyond the market, I have no idea where the meat originated and to be honest, I just didn’t care. I’ve always liked meat, but did not have much exposure to farming or hunting pre-FringeMan.
Marriage was a shock. Our lives were a little too reminiscent of Green Acres. I did not touch raw meat with my bare hands, let alone skin my own food. I’m proud to say that after years of therapy, I can touch raw meat if necessary.
However, getting within 3 feet of THIS is simply out of the question.
I save myself emotional turmoil and leave the house when FringeMan starts butchering. I return when the freezer is full of family size packages of meat.
Feet are NOT allowed on the table! Where did this deer get his manners?
He’s a caveman, not a FringeMan! He leaves under the shadows of darkness, club in hand and returns with dead animals strapped to my car. It’s awful!
Notice the hair stuck in dried blood on the roof of my car…disgusting.
Hunting is a primordial urge in FringeMan. He must hunt. He must kill. We must eat.
He insists eating fresh meat is healthier for us. It’s organic he says. I’ve told him they sell organic meat in the grocery store, but he doesn’t hear.
This poor little fellow never had a chance.
Perhaps I can us my feminine whiles to coax FringeMan into sharing his venison chili recipe with us tomorrow. It’s goooood and spicy.
For the latest health benefits of venison, visit SnakeLover at Student of Life.