BEAT ON THE BRAT
One day things were quite slow at the vegetarian restaurant. The all-white, good-looking, been-to-college staff was wearing the regulation t-shirts with the restaurant's name on the front and the aphorism, in large letters, on the back: "Love Animals Don't Eat Them." We were all hardcore vegetarians -- at least back then. It was so slow that the guys in the kitchen were kneading tofu and slicing potatoes to Led Zeppelin, while we in the dining room listened to Tanita Tikaram and peeled mountains of overripe oranges for fresh juice. There's a trick to it that involves five quick cuts and boom! the thing is peeled.
As usual we got to talking about the poor animals and the horrid customers with their food allergies and special requests and the fat, stupid Cubs fans in white shirts that wandered in by accident and the rageaholic boss who made his own twin cry at the Christmas party and the poor animals and so on.
And then, after some time, we took a poll and came to a horrifying realization: Every single person there had been abused as a child.
Every single one of 'em.
Love the animals, sure.
But beat on your issue all you want.
Use a cattle prod if you like.
Go ahead and have sex with 'em, too.
And then refuse to pay for therapy.
Tell them to get a real job.
If that doesn't create a bleeding-heart vegetarian, I don't know what will.