They're talking about us.
Charlie Martin is writing for P.J. Media in a post titled, "Those Ignorant Hicks Ruin Everything."
He had an argument with a scientist in Boulder that really rattled his goat's chain. Drove him over a cliff barking, fighting, hopping mad as a red-faced wet March hare spitting nails. Stark raving boiling stormy mad. And on top of all that, a little bit cross.
The scientist said that if people knew how meat is produced, they'd think twice about eating it.
Uh. Uh. Chuh.
Martin felt that was arrogant. He grew up on a cattle ranch. He knows the whole biz wax top to bottom end to end. But that's not really an argument because you needn't have grown up on a farm to know all that, and sensitive philosophical types who've worked in an abattoir can be so taken aback that the experience puts them off meat permanently.
Permanently until I walk by with a tray of ramaki, tiny pieces of chicken liver with a slice of real water chestnut, not the water chestnuts that come in tins conveniently, and peeling the fresh ones is a real bastard task and I mean it, but the difference between them is too great to go for convenience, wrapped up in a piece of bacon loaded with brown sugar. Ramaki is a very 1960's thing but they're fantastic. Plop. The truly obnoxiously mouthy aggressive vegetarian disappears one down his gaping maw. Then another. And another.
Check 'em out. I made them again since then. A couple of times.
This actually happened. I go, "You son of a bitch. After all that. Years of straight up berating. And here you prove everything you've said means nothing."
He said, "Rules are made to be broken."
Hugh Shields. Don't believe a word the guy says. He's full of s-h-eye-tea.
Plus, he'll bust a move on your date.
Martin says, truth is most people do know how meat is produced. And they know that from childhood. We're trained.
When we see this:
We think this:
When we see this:
We think this:
We know where our food comes from, Boulder Scientist Person.
What annoyed Charlie Martin was the subtext, the underlying motivation of the scientist that if only those ignorant hicks knew where meat comes from, then they would agree with him.
And that attitude flat pisses off Martin. It substitutes a difference in opinion with invincible ignorance and it underlies the political arguments we have today. It seems to Martin that it's the people who didn't now where meat comes from who get outraged by the cruelty of it.
(That is not the case with Hugh Shields. It's knowing intimately day in and day out, being covered in steer blood, moving around huge animal parts, that changed him from omnivore to vegetarian and from Catholicism to Buddhism.)
From food Martin expands this insight to cover Karin McQuillan's recent essay about being beyond the defensible perimeter explaining why guns could be essential household tools and maybe better border controls would be good, although it's not clear how that example buttresses his point.
Martin mentions Carter's 55 speed limit not imaging what that means to people who actually drive. He doesn't have to imagine anything, he knows what is best for all drivers.
Martin expands further to legacy media and the 3-letter government departments deciding the rubes cannot actually elect Trump, and if we do then they'll need to enact their insurance policy to keep us from harming ourselves.
The thing is, the ignorant hicks have caught on.
Yes. This is how the so-called self-appointed elite talk about us. If they would actually listen, but they do not, then they'd know we're actually rather sophisticated.
When I learned where meat comes from I cried.
My dad was all, "EAT IT!"
He was very scary when he got like that so I cried more.
"STOP CRYING OR I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT!"
See what I mean? You can't win with this guy.
Mum was easier to deal with, "There, there, I'll cook it until no blood comes out."
"Really? You can do that?"
So I ate all meats very well done. And little as possible. The more overdone the better. Everything charred. Burnt to a crisp. Black. Crunchy.
Then at 14-years of age I wanted to pal around with a group of deaf printers roughly twice my age. I'd impose myself on their lunch hour. I proved to be a bit useful so they tolerated me, but just barely. At lunch onetime I ordered steak well done and all three turned against me. They demanded I order my steak medium or else they would no longer tolerate my presence. They'd ditch me. So I obeyed. They forced me to realize the error of my judgement and corrected my steak-deviant ways.
I understand Trump orders his steak well done. What a moran.