I used to eat a lot of meat. A lot. As in pretty much every meal of every day. And I ate just about any kind of meat I could get my greasy gob around. If it’s not native to the Galápagos Islands, I, sadly, have probably eaten it. And that’s only because I never made it to Galápagos.
Not veal, though. That’s where I drew the line. I’d even judge other meat eaters for eating it. I mean, what kind of monster would eat a poor baby cow that’s spent its life locked in a box? I felt great satisfaction knowing that I had made the compassionate choice to limit my meat consumption to every other animal on the planet. It was a real sacrifice, let me tell you.
Of course, I had no idea that those calves being born into such misery was a direct result of all of the cheese I was smothering my 37 burgers a week * in.
Ignorance really is bliss, I guess.
* This is, obviously, an exaggeration. But not a very big one.