Let us just come right out and say it: We’re not your father’s butchers. We’re attractive men who can barely have sex without feeling guilty. We’re people who have led entire lives not competing for anything because we can feel the pain of anyone who has to lose because of our having needed to win so badly –- and we’re butchers. Fact: I can kick-flip and do a reverse 180 air in the half-pipe when I’m skating a lot, but I haven’t been modeling or skating much because I’m a butcher; that’s why I’m trying to tell you about our butcher shop right now. Can I kill and break down a full pig with its head on? Maybe not, you got me. But I can break down and feel like I can’t go on when you judge me by standards that are outmoded and rooted in another era’s idea of what a butcher is. Hey, before we go much further, how about laying a little something on the tip jar for me so I don’t feel like I’m being used. Okay, let’s talk farm fresh meats. Also, know that you can pay for your purchase today with Belly, Square Cash, Meemo, Cuppy, TemFlam, Coik!, Deempy, Froth, or Peabo. We don’t accept cash. Let me tell you why you can feel good about eating the cuts you buy from us: All of our meats are raised in the most humane conditions possible. The animals have space to roam, to purchase cars they hate to drive, to compromise, second guess decisions they’ve made, sit in bars, try to get over feelings with sex and food, hang around the town where they went to high school and try to recapture the spark in their work, watch years fly by, and travel to the same cities over and over again, wondering if they’ve added up to anything they had hoped to. They’re allowed to sleep in, eat candy, get lost in vague fantasies about marrying friends or colleagues, and to basically make mistakes with all their heart. Most of our meats come from small farms upstate on the weekends, back to their apartments in the city for the week, and then back upstate unless they have to travel for work. They work in New York, London, and Los Angeles. They’re well-reviewed writers and artists who have resonated with their audience and fulfilled fans’ needs, if not sales projections. They fly first class often enough to make them think it’s all leading somewhere. But here’s the best part: Our animals aren’t killed by farmers or butchers. That’s right, we let the animals kill themselves… slowly… over years of relatively small, bad decisions. So you can feel good in knowing they are killed the same way you and I are. We watch patiently as they hang out with self-destructive friends, we let them have the space to wander into habits that start out innocently enough, then grow to bite them in the ass. When a cow, chicken or pig gets off a plane and has a cigarette in front of the airport while they’re waiting on a car, and they call us on the phone and start saying things like, “I’ve been traveling like this for ten or twelve years now. I’ve been lucky. I wonder how long I’ll get. I wonder many loves one gets in life, how many really big ones. I’ve had one, when you think about it, there’s not that much time to have more than one. I’m talking about the big one, 15 years, 20 years, you’re not gonna get to do that more than once. Right? Or am I crazy? Why do I think about this shit? I could quit all of this right now, what the fuck, I’ve done a lot, been half way around the world a couple times in each direction, met people I thought I’d never meet, been paid to do it all, and have stuck around long enough to see a lot of stuff change, you know what I mean?” When the animals start saying stuff like that and trailing off, we know that you will be getting farm fresh, humanely raised and killed beef, chicken, or pork. Eventually.
McSweeney's Quarterly Subscriptions
“A key barometer of the literary climate.”
—The New York Times