Things have been getting out of hand for me lately. Between my ongoing battles with metaphorical demons and literal monsters, I’ve found myself living on the fringes of society in order to avoid the legal scrutiny that I deserve and the financial obligations that accompany secure housing. Still, the Reality Register remains the only publication with the good sense to pay me, even though I continue to submit content to Sherdog.com and Reader’s Digest, and so I must take on the tasks that they assign me.
This is how I became a true carnivore.
Always looking to push the envelope into new frontiers beyond cryptids, book reviews, recipes, and simulation lifestyle guides, Stan Dirkson told me he wanted a column on the dangers of the radical carnivore diet, and so I’ve tried it out and prepared a hatchet job on this outlandish scheme to live without vegetables.
Firstly, I did some research into the most famous minds on the carnivore diet and found myself several digital mentors to help me through this journey. The Liver King is a fellow steroid enthusiast who got me excited to try this dangerous, borderline suicidal diet in which I would feast on raw liver, dine on raw eggs, cook my steak for mere moments over a trash can fire, and wipe again and again with whatever fast food napkins I could find in the trash.
Dr. Ken Berry was a bit too sensible for my liking, and he didn’t seem unhinged at all, which didn’t really do anything for me one way or the other.
Even Jordan Peterson was shilling the diet. After hearing his muppet-like voice and seeing his flamboyant suits, I began to worry that this diet was part of the demasculinization agenda that permeates every aspect of modern culture. I shook off those concerns, as Joe Rogan assured me that cavemen ate meat, and thus we should, too. Trusting the plan, I started throwing away the bun on my Baconators and adding butter to every meal.
Truth be told, the first week was difficult. I wanted to drink soda, I wanted to eat french fries, and more than anything, I wanted to put some damn ketchup on my burgers. However, I persevered and then one day woke up with some extra pep in my step and realized that I wasn’t even getting out of breath as I trudged up the bridge embankment to start my day. The local grocery store was a short walk, so I headed down the two-lane highway to start my new job behind the deli counter, specifically near the well-stocked rotisserie.
You see, meat is expensive, and writing is cheap. In order to make some pennies from my words, I needed to spend dollars on dead animals, so I picked up a part-time job at the Publix near my undisclosed location. The deli needed help, and I figured that if I could steal a slice of every cold cut order and then pilfer a rack of ribs or rotisserie chicken just 3 or 4 times a shift, then certainly I could make this diet work.
My plan worked like a charm, and I was able to eat freely while my coworkers sleepwalked through their shifts, completely fogged by the plant toxins and emasculating carbohydrates that clogged their pathetic bodies. Roast beef, turkey, ham, even something called a Pimento Loaf all fell to my spinning blade, and portions went into my eager mouth. I mastered the rotisserie quickly, producing the most succulent chicken and tender ribs. No king of antiquity ate so well as I did in that week that I spent at the helm of the Publix deli.
Like all good things, it ended. My manager noticed the missing meats and caught me on camera snacking on succulent slices of salami, though he never mentioned the reappropriated rotisserie ribs that I had been enjoying. Still, my energy levels and mental clarity were higher than ever, even after my steroid supplies had run dry. There was no way around it: meat is medicine.
I went back to my sheltered location under the bridge and pondered my next meal. As I pondered, it walked right by my bedroll. A spotted deer, barely more than a fawn, sauntered through the encampment, and I knew what I had to do. Leaping with the strength of a meat eater, I approached the beast, ravenous to taste its flesh. It must have done this dance before, as it knocked me to the ground with a swing of its head, attacking with surprisingly sharp front hooves. The prey had become the predator.
But it didn’t count on facing a carnivore.
My resolve came without effort; the cervid’s blows bounced off my protein-rich muscles, and I grabbed that elegant neck, squeezing hard enough that the meat tenderized between my fingers. The dying gasps, I’m told, have micronutrients and some ephemeral calories, so I breathed deeply as the creature breathed its last. With the strength of fifty lions, I tore into her chest cavity, the heart warm and jiggling with the final currents of life, that life force crawling down my esophagus to nurture my continued life.
My friends gathered round, and we roasted the carcass over a fire of salvaged pallets, and we tanned the hide with the few brains that I did not eat. The skull hangs on the bridge’s rafters as a souvenir of the time that we ate so well. I slept the sleep of satiety and woke in the morning to tell my editor that the carnivore diet is actually pretty good and that he should try it.
Mohammed Sinclair
