20,000 Miles

In retaliation to the attacks against vegans in social networks across the globe and in face-to-face confrontations.

Vegans. Are we perfect? No. But, we are better than you.

Our understanding spans light-years beyond that of the self-absorbed masses. We have respect for life that no religious/spiritual pretense dare compare. A working vision for the future that culminates in world peace if only you could imagine.

As with any conviction, our dedication draws an assault of absurd arguments meant to discredit us while making animal rights activists out as terrorists.[1] A judgment handed down by the authorities at the demand of their handlers and favored by the sniveling populace.

Accusations against us grow from a baseless albeit a well-fertilized malice. Ranging from the fatuous to more pressing matters we cannot stall. Hypocrisy, because we kill.

We murder the multitude of insects that splatter against the grills and windshields of our automobiles, ones we disembowel cultivating our gardens or them we’ve disembodied mowing our lawns. We might even swat mosquitoes and flies, might poison the termites that eat our environmentally flawed dwellings.

We are mindful of our crimes committed against the delicate vulnerabilities of nature, necessitated by our captivity in a profit-driven, pseudo civilization. Unlike you, we strive to lessen our impact.

BTW, we realize plants are a life form. So, drop the chorus of adolescent jokes. As well, we are not trying to convert Nature’s predators into vegans. You’re a dull, witless idiot to say such.

Here’s the skinny. Likened to a 20,000-mile journey, we’ve taken only the first steps. Narrowing the gap between where we are and where our futures intend requires time. The time we may not have. An ultimatum you decide in your dystopian drive toward annihilation: endless war and your obeisant patriotism. The swarm of unfettered violence and senseless murders of innocent creatures, the driving power of apocalypse.

Your unsustainable life choices inflamed by greed and rapacity:

It isn’t veganism aiding the world’s sixth mass extinction,[2] nor global warming.[3]

It isn’t veganism contaminating the waterways and oceans. It is the agricultural runoff that creates hypoxic dead zones.[4]

It isn’t veganism depleting the oceans of fish,[5] A third of those ground into livestock feed,[6] leaving behind a killing entanglement of fishing nets.[7] Nor is it veganism that sustains the abominable ‘Sea Slave’ fishing trade.[8]

It isn’t veganism decimating the rainforests to gain acreage for livestock and the crops to feed them.[9]

It isn’t veganism squandering resources to process, store, refrigerate, dispose, and transport the remains and refuse of doomed and slaughtered earthlings.[10] Nor is it veganism that depletes fresh water reserves.[11]

Veganism isn’t the reason people starve. This is a famine fed by the insatiable appetite for meat. Because it’s not veganism buying third-world feed crops to sustain western livestock.[12]

Someday, if you and your ilk haven’t by then destroyed the planet, will come a time when people live in accord with nature. As when humans stop procreating exponentially, spreading and stacking one on top the other. When machinery and technology give way to biological innovations and adaptations.

No cars to run down animal and insect. Nor roads, walls, and fences to inhibit wildlife.

An open landscape of clean soil, air, water, and sustainability steeped in compassion and cooperation with Nature and one another.

Then all will have plenty.

We may even reach the stage of our evolution when we no longer need harvest plants, living off the sun’s energy alone. But even if we don’t, even if we need plant nourishment to survive we will till the soil with our hands, tender as the Buddhist monks.

The 20,000-mile journey of the vegan is today but the embryo of Utopia.

I know vegan concepts orbit beyond your diminutive sphere of care and reasoning and that you’ll continue to devalue those who aspire to higher realms of existence. I know too that one of two outcomes are inevitable and soon forthwith, in the cosmic sense. Either attrition will dissolve your kindred and life will live in its natural harmony. Or, the planet will die an agonizing death. No fault of the vegan.

So, while you’re quick to ridicule our principles, we offer sustainability while you’re committed to depletion. We present healthy alternatives while you stay patsy to the medical/pharmaceutical/research/animal agricultural cartels. We’re compassionate; you’re a brute. You’re a parasite and terror to the planet and all its life forms. A selfish, gluttonous, short-sighted simpleton whose concerns run shallow, anchored in unreformable arrogance. You’re a plague, and a contaminate, a virus to infect your offspring and others with your self-purposing dogma.

Viva La Vevolution!


[1] Animal Enterprise Terrorism Act (AETA) http://www.greenisthenewred.com/blog/tag/animal-enterprise-terrorism-act/

[2] ‘Biological annihilation:’ Earth’s 6th mass extinction is underway https://www.usatoday.com/story/tech/science/2017/07/10/earth-faces-sixth-mass-extinction/465655001/

[3] Global Farm Animal Production and Global Warming: Impacting and Mitigating Climate Change https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2367646/

[4] Meat industry runoff has created a massive dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico http://boingboing.net/2017/08/03/meat-industry-runoff-has-creat.html

[5] Seafood could collapse by 2050, experts warn http://www.nbcnews.com/id/15532333/ns/world_news-world_environment/t/seafood-could-collapse-experts-warn/

[6] One-third of fish caught worldwide used as animal feed http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/earth/earthnews/3353985/One-third-of-fish-caught-worldwide-used-as-animal-feed.html

[7] Ghost Fishing Nets: Invisible Killers in the Oceans http://earthisland.org/journal/index.php/elist/eListRead/ghost_fishing_nets_invisible_killers_in_the_oceans/

[8] ‘Sea Slaves’: The Human Misery That Feeds Pets and Livestock https://www.nytimes.com/2015/07/27/world/outlaw-ocean-thailand-fishing-sea-slaves-pets.html

[9] Agriculture http://www.rainforestfoundation.org/agriculture/

[10] Facts on Animal Farming and the Environment http://www.onegreenplanet.org/animalsandnature/facts-on-animal-farming-and-the-environment/

[11] Water Resources: Agricultural and Environmental Issues https://academic.oup.com/bioscience/article/54/10/909/230205/Water-Resources-Agricultural-and-Environmental

[12] Feed the World https://www.viva.org.uk/feed-world

Other references:

[a] Hidden costs of industrial agriculture http://www.ucsusa.org/food_and_agriculture/our-failing-food-system/industrial-agriculture/hidden-costs-of-industrial.html

[b] What is sustainable agriculture? http://www.ucsusa.org/our-work/food-agriculture/solutions/advance-sustainable-agriculture

[c] Our Food Our World http://www.converge.org.nz/pirm/ofow.htm






I’m beside the pond, on the north side beneath the walnut tree, more contemplating than reading. Someday I’ll put a gazebo here in place of this blue plastic chair. Maybe next spring.

The place has an emptiness about it, a hollow ring. I suspect it will for some time. I buried Wacky a few hours ago this morning. She was as much of this place as anything else.

I never told anyone, but part of the reason I agreed to this place was so that our two rescued ducks could have a real pond to swim.

Yeah, I swim in it too, and that was another part of the reason.

But now, there’s one less to share the fun.

There’s an emptiness about the place, I said that already I know. And another hole in my heart. I’m not sure how many more of these I can take.

Well, I’m going back outside and sit beneath that walnut tree, do a little more contemplating. I’ll take my book, but I doubt I’ll read.

Talk to y’all later.

Rest in peace, Wacky. ? – September 11, 2016

Duck Duck Go

Daffany & Wacky, who's who, I haven't a clue
Daffany & Wacky, who’s who, I haven’t a clue

It occurs to me that many of you may not realize, or perhaps not even care, that Google, Bing, and whoever else there might be, track and store your search history, all of it, for all time. And that your search history can be used against you in a court of law; and can always be, and I’m sure would be, deviously misconstrued, misinterpreted, and taken out of context. And certainly, these searchy slimy sycophantic cohorts of the surveillance state would gladly hand over that history without a quack, squabble or a court order.

And face it, whether you think you do or not, we’ve all things we’d like to remain private, if for no other reason than a matter of principle; but I’m betting there’s more to it than that, eh.

There is a search engine about that claims not to fly with the flock, a lone duck so to speak, DuckDuckGo.com. Whether they’re true to their word or not, who really knows. But what we do know is that the others are sleaze ball functionaries of the NSA, CIA, FBI, and corporate America, and here’s a Duck who claims not to swim in their cesspool.

Like I said, for all we know it could be just another ploy in a long history of ploys and deception. You be the judge. As for me, I’m game for anything that takes from the coffers of Google, the low-life sonsofbitches.

Independence Day, The Elite, and It’s What’s For Dinner

In the early days of what grew to be this great and wondrous land of liberty, The United States of America, our founding fathers – God bless their righteous path – found this magnificent nation on a principle. That principle was, as it stands today, the equality of all men. As evidence, I submit the following excerpt from the document that kick started the whole damn thing, The Declaration of Independence, in verbatim, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men [sic] are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator [a.k.a. The God of Abraham] with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness . . .”

And so on that glorious day in ‘76 these fearless defiers of the British crown agreed in whole, from this point forth and on these very bloody red, white elite, and dolefully blue shores, all men equal.

And so it came to be.

Well, at least it came to be for their narrow definition of “all men.”

It’s especially important you note that they did not mention women or females or even remotely imply anything of the opposite sex. It is equally important, and although they didn’t explicitly say so (at least in any surviving document we know of), the implication is plain to see by their action and deed that they never intended to include any man of color, or poor, or of the annoying native occupying sort.

Understand if you will, and this is key to this essay, IT SIMPLY NEVER ENTERED THEIR SOMBRE MINDS to include anyone outside their privileged clique.

And why should they?

In their supreme and elite way of reasoning, they were superior. That was plain and simple.

And by hell, they may well have been. For they certainly displayed a high degree of genius crafting a bamboozle that carries on to this day. But then again, humans are such easy marks; they’ll believe anything . . . except the truth.

To these men of high connivery, no other being, human or otherwise, were worthy of Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness, how ludicrous the very notion.

Years later, and although the cast differ, the spirit was alive and well in the same holy elite conviction that exist during the days of Slavery / Abolition when only a few misguided whites expressed blasphemy toward the sanctity of slavery. Slavery was the order of the day blessed by God, by god. The overwhelming afflicted mindset of the time — nothing less than a contagious mental virus, gave credence to enslaving the black person. Even among those who considered themselves aware, just, caring, and compassionate, blacks deserved no better. “It can be no other way for heaven’s sake, don’t be ridiculous. It’s as plain as that honker on your face is. End of discussion, get ready for church, the Lord waits.”

My point is, during both of these times and throughout history, self-entitled groups seem fit, content, justified, perhaps even blind to excluding certain other sentient groups the same considerations they afforded themselves.

And nothing over the years has changed. In fact, in many ways the mentality bears regressing, e.g. South Carolina. “Oh hell, they’s just some good ‘ol god-fearin’ boys is all, ain’t meanin’ to hurt nobody, just wanna burn some black churches down that’s all. Hell, if somebody’s in ’em they ought’a got out.”

Just as the founding fathers found themselves far superior and could envision no other respect for equality, and just as those in the slave trade and white public of the time could hold no other accounting for blacks but that of slavery, the contemporary find themselves wearing the same elite bias worn throughout the ages by virtue of their own exclusion of the most oppressed, the most enslaved, and most tortured class of sentient beings by denying them their Rights of Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. I’m speaking of course of what you call animals and whom I call friends. And all too many give animal slavery no more consideration than the despotic slave master did his slaves. Less I suspect.

There are a multitude of reason for this exclusion and they run deep and wide in our millennia of elite propagandist conditioning, but the one I find most exasperating, even before religious entitlement, is the power of the human palate, where taste and gluttony justify all and any means, no matter how diabolical.

It’s What’s for Dinner

The power of the palate is such as to distort all reason of morality, even when not starved. As such, it could well have been and had it been we would not to this day give it a moment’s thought that . . .

If during the days of slavery it were as it were to buy, sell, and raise slaves for menial tasks, hard labor, and legal rape of child and adult, but if too it were to raise blacks for their hair, hide, and flesh — you know hotdogs, tenderloins, rump roast, flip-flops, fanny packs, fringe, chaps, and whatnot then to this day, to this very goddamned day we’d be genetically altering, fattening-up, caging, slaughtering and butchering black folks by the billions (truth be known, all we’re not doing is eating them, I hope). We’d package their flesh and entrails in convenient carry size Styrofoam and cellophane containers bar coded and stacked neat and visually appealing in open refrigerated boxes in the climate comforted aisles of your favorite fucking food store, under the government subsidized marketing campaign of, “N*, It’s What’s for Dinner”; whilst we make sweet and colorful gummy bears from their foreskins and scrotum, bones and cartilage.

“Aha, look here honey buns, here’s a fine cut from a young black buck if I ever did see one.”

“And it was only fed the highest quality non-GMO fruits and vegetables too, dear. See the USDA checkmark of approval?”

“What’d you say we pick up a couple of these thighs and ribs for our Fourth of July Independence Day cookout, my precious buttercup?”

“Oh sweetie, I think that would be just delicious. Mmm, mmm, good. You are a superb chef of the grill, you hunk of a man of mine.”

“Don’t forget the marinade, my little tweetie pie. Oh, yeah, and a couple of jars of pickled feet, you know how the kids just love to suck the meat from the toe bones.”

“. . . That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”


E. Washington St., Butchertown, Louisville, KY by Angry Aspie (talk) Wikipedia.org


Note, the following is an updated version of the original.

There is a neighborhood east of downtown Louisville, Kentucky, whose residents proudly refer to as Butchertown.

Blood flows rivers in Butchertown.

The stench of death fills the air.

An invisible breath of terror shudders the spirit of any sensitive soul who happens by the namesake. A place where walls deflect horrific cries of fear while veiling horrors that would wrench the gut of even the sternest of all men. And yet, and even so, the folks of Butchertown are devotedly proud of their neighborhood.

It’s historic.

Bloody historic.

They murder pigs in Butchertown, by the tractor-trailer loads.

And no one from Butchertown gives it a moment’s care, except for the foul odor of death that disturbs their quaint old neighborhood.[1]

There is two class of victims in Butchertown; those who work this horrid industry and of course, the pigs who surely must wonder why their sentence in life is so incredibly brutal. To whom have they done injustice to demand such harsh punishment? Surely, these thoughts must run through their intelligent and sensitive minds.

Oh yes, there is a third class of victim, the mistreated spouses, and the abused children and the victims of violent crime perpetrated by those who work this horrid industry.[2] I don’t know if the criminal elements are attracted these ghastly positions of employ, or if they become hideous due these occupations. Nor, do I care. The point is one of cruelty created by supply and demand. Where the ramifications are manifold but rarely suspect, yet produce an endless stream of victims.

Although the human suffering cannot equate in volume to the millions of physically, sexually, mentally abused and brutally murdered pigs. And without so much as, “Who gives a fuck?”

But it is the pigs I give a fuck about, few else ever will.

Few care.

Few see any significance to pigs beyond the satisfaction of their gluttonous appetite. And it is Butchertown that caterers to their morbid craving.

[1] Inside the JBS Butchertown hog slaughter plant http://www.courier-journal.com/story/tech/science/environment/2014/08/29/jbs-humane-slaughter-violations/14753959/

[2] Shooting of Four Workers at Slaughterhouse and the Connection between Violence to Animals and Humans http://freefromharm.org/animal-products-and-psychology/shooting-of-four-workers-at-slaughterhouse-and-the-connection-between-violence-to-animals-and-humans/


Roxie and the girls waiting at the gate
Roxie and the girls waiting at the gate

Farewell Roxie, my girl.

My transformation from mental oblivion to conscious vegan began by distancing myself from the horrific world of animal agriculture that was slowly focusing into view. In the first moment I saw the crowding of hens stuffed into battery cages, I swore off eggs, or rather factory farmed eggs. There was no way I would support this madness, my only options then were for us to do without eggs, which at the time seemed quite the impossible, or to have our own egg-laying hens.

And so we entered the organic phase of life.

Now, those that know me know that when I set my mind to a thing it is hard set to no restraints, and often hastily so as was this time. But there was never a question that should we have hens, that they would be anything less than family. And so they are, but they needed their own space. I wasn’t quite ready to offer a spare room to my feathered egg-laying family, besides the wooden and tiled floors were far too slick for their feet. So to the tune of $2500 I purchased an Amish made 6 x 7 foot walk-in coop, installed a heater and air conditioner, built a matching 7 x 17 foot enclosed metal-roof run with a door open to the backyard. A quaint little setting this is and a little more than year later I had it all paid for; calculating the overall cost of our eggs thus far to be roughly $75 a dozen, a conservative figure, but it was money well spent.

Their comfort and wellbeing was of the utmost concern. And it didn’t matter to us if they laid an egg or not. They were our “girls” and the eggs were a bonus.

The five took to the comfort and security as they settled in their new climate controlled home, recently equipped with baby monitor. Their only exposure to a rooster is the framed picture of a proud and handsome cock hung over the hen door. Although they would soon find the company of two rescued-from-a-feed-store Easter ducks who took right to the accommodations.

Roxie was always my favorite; I suspect this in itself had a hand in her early demise for who hasn’t felt the vindictive spite of the Gods’. Their demented pleasure they lavish in by denying us our most treasured pleasures. To hell with them I say and to how they play us with their taunts of foreboding.

Yes, I foresaw Roxie’s final moment coming. Not with any clarity of detail or lending of any specifics that might have prevented this tragedy, but with knowledge that soon she’d leave, at least she’d be the first to go. I had this same premonition before my father died. When at my first revelation two years prior to his death I recall how suddenly I cried out as I walk through the house, the home he helped us buy and remodel. “No! No not yet, just a few more years with him,” I begged. And in their uncharacteristic mercy, the Gods granted my request, but only for two short years—such is the miserliness of these Eternal bastards.

Our girls are joy to us and we love them whole-heartedly. I treasure each one’s unique character and it fills me with delight and laughter to see them run / fly to greet me at the gate each evening as they see my Jeep pull into the drive. Yes, I’ll miss the way Roxie snuggled up next to me for her back rub, and the way she would fluff her feathers out and shake it off when finally she’d have enough caressing.

Ironic it is that the very roof I built to shelter them would hold back the ice from the recent Polar Vortexes, and how unsuspectedly a thaw would have it sliding down finding Roxie beneath, this my only explanation for her injury. The veterinarian offered a glimmer of hope for recovery and indeed Roxie seemed to improve. That was until last evening when suddenly she could no longer stand on her own without falling over backwards. I spent that night on the sofa holding her close to my chest as she slept and I often thought she died in my arms, so quiet and still she lay. Though she would occasionally awake and chirp softly, telling me she loved me. And I said to her in reply, I love you too Roxie, my girl.

I wept like a child, as I wept for every friend, family, and animal companion that passed through my now accumulating years. I curse this my soft character that chokes my speech, quivers my lips, blurs my sight, and weighs so heavy on my spirit for what seems to be one damned loss after another. For in the headstrong hardened facade I wear as an anarchist, I’ve nothing more than a heart of mush. A coward whose greatest fear is to live a long life sentenced to the fate of having to endure the passing of all whom I love, and yet who lacks the courage to end it all.

Her body rests in the backyard near the fence. Her sisters and her friends the ducks gathered quiet and unmoving around her grave for some time after I shoveled the last bit of dirt upon her.

Good-bye Roxie, my girl, we miss you.