where the writers are

I know a guy called Burger and everytime I'm with him eating a dinner of hamburger with lashings of mayo and melted cheese, I am occupied by the spirit of the dead meat. After about an hour, the meat makes its way into my bloodstream, with the leftovers sent for processing in the anal meat packing facory. I start to feel this amazing surge of energy, a burst of pure animal spirit. The digested cow has come back to life in my surging heart rate, my feet plod along, and soon my face is covered by flies and I drop cow patties along the plank at work. Last night, I served a young woman with an angelic face, and I offered a comment,

"I ate a burger an hour ago and I feel like the animal is alive inside me. Who would not want to feel that, what it's like to have another species actually living inside you? Ten minutes ago I became conscious of it. And now I have this hatred towards vegetarians. They'll never know how it feels to be the vessel for an animal re-born inside you."

She left.

My bizarreness started to form due to the increasing pressure of the drinkers' demands, the rising wall of noise and the endless repeats on the juke box. I flopped around, missing targets with the bottle, squeezing olives, and fondling cherries before dropping them into cocktails. My legs went wobbly. People asked if I was alright. Inside I could hear the cow saying, "Let me out of this fucking place. "

Soon I was yelling, spit frothed from my mouth, my eyes rolled back.

"What's wrong with that bartender asshole?" someone said.

"Mad Cow Disease," I replied, overhearing them.