That isn't funny, at all

Real Men Eat Meat

By morning sun they ventured, climbing hills, scaling jagged mountains, crossing endless, shimmering plains in search of their quarry. In the enduring silence of the hunt, there is a unspoken camaraderie, there is a brotherhood. There is a singularity of purpose which binds them together. Every spare moment, sharpening their weapons, is a further, selfless descent into the role each has taken, the fearless hunter each must be, while existing for each other. This is a blood bond. In sharpening their blades of stone, and their spears of fire-hardened wood, each is sharpening their own will, bringing it to a determined point, burning with a renewed acuity of resolve. By night, the fire reflecting in their eyes, speaks of the fire burning in their souls.

Across the raging river, white-capped waves thrashing against stones, leaping, before crashing down again in a perpetuity of ravagement, beyond the rocky shores, lies their destination, the bountiful hunting land which had been promised by their leader. One of the men, and nearly another, lost to the swirling torrents of current, is pulled beneath and taken as sacrifice by the river gods. The balance of the hunting party pulls themselves onto the barbs of stone which flank the river's edge, their blood mixing on each traveled, as each is torn. The late afternoon sun hangs, languishing in the sky, though falling to west in shared exhaustion with the weary men.

Upon seeing the awakening of promise, just over the next hill, the sun pointing the way as their tall shadows travel ahead of them, the men find renewed vigor. Their eyes widen with anticipation. The valley is lush with life, with the greenery of attainment, fields and groves, cucumbers, and lettuce, avocados, and plump carrots, cauliflower, and asparagus, and juicy-red tomatoes. The pods of peas hang, limp with disappointment. There is no meat, no prey. There is no hunt.

Their grand leader, the flamboyant fellow, had led them on this hunt, speaking, with one pinky raised, of unimagined feasts, telling tales by evening fires, in a series of clicks and aboriginal grunts which had become their language. Now here he stood, with his arms spread wide gesturing to the smorgasbord of vegetables. At first, the party, hungering, both for sustenance, and for the thrill of the hunt, were nonplussed. One poked, curiously, at a squash with his sharpened stick, then snorted in disapproval as it rolled over, compliantly. The rest continued to look at the fields of salad ingredients, and then at their leader, alternating their puzzled gazes between the two, in head-tilting disbelief.

What would they find over the next hill, Bell Peppers? Artichokes? Brussels Sprouts? One of the men, the successor in line within their ancient hierarchy, motioned to the one standing behind the leader, signaling, with a head nod, that it was time. As the stone axe fell on the leader's head, he crumbled in a heap of defeat, falling into a patch of leafy collard greens.

The remainder of the men, without instruction, continued with what need happen next. One stuffed a tomato in the leader's mouth, the gelatinous muck contained inside, dribbling down the now-silent leader's chin. Another, lifted the leader's loin cloth, jamming a handful of broccoli spears, and crispy celery stalks, into his nether region, as a garnish. A third and fourth, rubbed his body with fresh garlic found in the fields. His shriveled genitalia, which seemed to be malfunctioning, or without purpose, was chopped off and tossed into a nearby patch of turnips, left to feed the scavenger birds.

The men ate well that night, although a fight broke out over who would get the last leg, after which, there was twice as much meat, and one less mouth to feed. Sitting by the fire, the men danced in circles, and used the bones to make crude music, banging on the ground, a nearby hollow tree, and the fire stones, grunting in tune to the beat. The contented song which they belched aloud, roughly translated, was, "Real men eat meat."