Sticks and Stones

My daughter's school received a bomb threat last week. No shit. "I have a bomb!" was found written on the wall of the girls' bathroom. With lipstick.

So. Back to our regularly-scheduled program.

Still, it gives one pause when the phone rings and an authoritative male voice on the line says,

"Good Morning! This is Harold Houdini, Principal of Animal House Middle School! I'm calling to update you on a situation we have here in the building..."

It being only 11:15 a.m., I groggily reply, "Hell-o...?" I'm thinking the dude's calling me personally, probably because my daughter is so special. But then he ignores my greeting and continues with the update, at which point I deduce this is a recording.

Speaking of which.

We're in Rewind. Once Again. Up North. Rewind back into prehistory. Back to the Stone Age. Back to the foggy dawn of evolution. When Man as we know him first appeared. And Woman, as she might have been, disappeared.

Once again, as happens annually this time of year in this neck of the woods, Neanderthal Days are upon us. Hard-ons with weapons are roaming the countryside, shooting their wads at anything that moves (flies flees runs trips falls panics freezes), congratulating themselves on their masculinity. Their virility. Their bravery. Their record-setting weenies.

Meanwhile, let me congratulate certain young offspring of these tiresome throwbacks, a growing number of whom are refusing to take part in this antiquated male-bonding charade their fathers are attempting to shove up their lily-white asses. Who've shown they possess a latent intelligence gene deep in the mire of their genetic code, demonstrating that the capacity for compassion, for comprehending the larger picture, for thinking outside the box (or the scope of a high-powered rifle) is still possible in this sad sad world, despite enormous odds and no support from the homefront.

Speaking of which.

Several days after the "bomb threat" at my daughter's school (which resulted in a 45-minute lockdown with students scarfing emergency treats and discussing Britney Spears' parenting techniques while Harold Houdini and the Powers That Be determined the threat was a hoax), an item appeared on the front page of the state's biggest newspaper:

"Hunters Bag Half-Ton Moose! Largest On Record!"

There I am, negotiating a patch of sun with my morning coffee, attempting to greet yet another new day in this sad sad world, and this is what greets me. On the front page, no less. You could hear the impact as I fell headlong into my annual bout of Hunting-Seasonal Depression. I wanted to scream. I wanted to holler. I wanted to tear out my hair. I wanted to tear out into the woods and shoot the nearest hunter I came across. I wanted to shoot him and shoot him again and shoot him once more and watch him die in agony and then have my picture taken next to him and call the state's biggest newspaper:

"Woman Bags 200-Lb. Animal Abuser! Smallest Dick On Record!"

But this, of course, will never happen. Why? Because I'm one of "those."

I don't own a firearm. I never have. I never will. I don't kill people. I certainly don't kill animals. I'm a vegetarian. I try to buy cruelty-free products. I try to read labels. I believe all sentient beings have the same rights when it comes to pain and suffering. Just because some being isn't human, doesn't mean I have the right to torture it or mutilate it or murder it or eat it or wear it or hang it on the wall. What in god's name do these hunters think an animal feels when it dies in this way? How can these people live with themselves? Are they truly that morally bankrupt? that pathologically self-centered?

I'm no saint. I don't live perfectly. I have blood on my hands. But I try to live intentionally. I try to live in awareness. I try.

Consequently, I'm a joke. A bunny-hugger. A chicken. A sissy. I'm un-American. Unpatriotic. Holier-than-thou. A laughingstock. "Who does she think she is?" I've been hearing that ever since I can remember. "If we are what we eat, then you're a fruit!" or "...a vegetable!" Been there, heard that. Believe me, it's a lonely job being the Sally Field of Animal Rights in this neck of the woods.

So. You're a Carnivore and I'm a Veg-head. So fucking what? These are names, Stupid. These are playground taunts. These are words. They could be written on the side of a building with spray paint. On a driveway with chalk. On a bathroom wall. With lipstick. Words will never hurt me. Words will never hurt you. But as any preschooler knows...any gut-shot half-ton moose plunging panic-stricken through the jackpine knows...there are many many things that will.