Because there will come a day, maybe a Wednesday, when you will be sitting on an M train, heading downtown. You may be thinking of other things or listening to an iPod or watching a schoolteacher try to herd 17 8-year-olds onto the train but then you will see it, lying on the subway car’s floor. A receipt.
From Meat Heaven.
You will pick it up, look at it, and think about this for a moment. Meat Heaven.
And the more you think about it, the more theological questions will arise.
Is this where all meat goes if it’s been good during its time on earth? Or only certain meat?
Isn’t this meat soon going to be seared by flames in some way?
And if that is Meat Hell, wouldn’t that make Meat Heaven more like… Meat Purgatory? Or would it be Meat Limbo?
Then your eye will wander down the length of the receipt to the bottom, and you will find yourself, as you rattle through a tunnel half a mile below ground, asking the most pressing question yet:
Who the fuck drops $67.30 on meat nowadays?!