Do the Hamburger Hop

There’s no getting around it: It’s hard to slaughter the little buggers when you’ve raised ‘em from sliders. Much as you might try not to, you can’t help growing attached to ‘em. They are cute, with their big floppy ears and their funny little feet and their layer of crispy lettuce. It’s a sad sound they make in the slaughterhouse—a kind of shrieking, laughing sound. And of course the occasional one will plead with you to spare its life in exchange for wishes. Usually in German. A couple of our part-time hands will fall for that one just about every season.

But that’s life on the farm. You care for ‘em, you provide for ‘em, you protect ‘em from predators and the elements, you stage a ballet or two for ‘em in the early autumn, and you try to keep them from burrowing into your skull while you sleep and eating your dreams. Then you butcher ‘em.

It’s not pretty. And it’s not for everybody, I guess. But it’s somethin’ you have to come to terms with if you want to maintain the modern diet we’ve all grown accustomed to.

By which I mean eating hallucinogenic mushrooms.

Wear this shirt: on BUNday, hahahahaha

Don’t wear this shirt: to any country where the rabbit is a sacred cow.

This shirt tells the world: “I’m overdue, I’m overdue, for a very important barbeque”

We call this color: Bacon Double Asphalt

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