Have you made your holiday grocery list yet? Still got a few last-minute items left to pick up? Hmmm. Let's see now ... tangerines for the stockings, a couple of cans of those fancy peas, some chestnuts for roasting and, what's this? Oh, yeah. Horsemeat.
See, it turns out that Congress recently slipped a little nugget into the spending bill that lifts a ban on funding horsemeat inspections.
Way to go, Congress. Not only did you decide that it's OK to call pizza a vegetable but now there's the very real possibility that Suzy and Bobby will be ripping into "New Lunchables With Horsemeat!" before too long. To all of this, I must say, because I can't resist it:
With the ban lifted, some believe that a slaughterhouse will be open in a couple of months that could eventually slaughter as many as 200,000 horses a year for humans to eat. Make that sorta humans.
Americans, of course, eat lots of animals. But we don't eat horsemeat and the reason for that should be obvious: It's creepy.
What's that you say? Isn't that hypocritical? Don't we swoon over our morning bacon and our near-ritual Friday night rib-eye? Well, yes. But horses are different. You can't watch The Kentucky Derby and think "Damn! I bet there will come a day when that Funny Cide will make some awesome burgers!" No, no. You are mesmerized by the horses' grace and strength and, yes, nobility. The pig? Meh. The cow? Nice eyes but, well, there's a reason the movie isn't called "War-cow," now isn't there?
I hate to play favorites here, but horses are just plain better.
It's a slippery slope
It should be noted that pro-slaughter activists (and how would you like to put that on your resume?) believe that most of the meat would be shipped to Europe and Asia, where horsemeat is treated as a delicacy.
We can't ever export anything cool, can we? They ship all that high-tech electronics and luxury cars and the best we can do is horsemeat?
The simple truth is that we can't eat horses because they're American icons. They are Secretariat and Silver and Trigger and Traveller and those sturdy, puffy-footed Clydesdales. I'll bet a lot of us remember what it was like to beg for a horse or a pony every birthday and every Christmas - and I don't mean roasted with a side of mashed potatoes.
The way I see it, you start grilling horse kebabs with the neighbors and it's a slippery slope to Puppy a l'orange. Don't say I didn't warn you.