5 Circumstances Under Which Cannibalism Is Acceptable To Me
Tricked into a Nontraditional Funeral Rite
After my Gamma dies of a brain aneurism, I’m invited to a funeral reception at her secluded plantation style mansion. By the time we get there, I’m ravenous with hunger. “That’s good,” says my aunt as I arrive. “Because we’ve cooked so much…meat.” We’re served veal sandwiches in a dimly lit living room, surrounded by a dozen taxidermy horses, killed by my Gamma at the height of her senility, their glassy eyes frozen in terror. When we finish the sandwiches, my aunt wheels out a big screen television and inserts a VHS tape. It’s a close-up of my Gamma: “My last wish is that my body’s precious nutrients nourish my descendants, making them strong and wise. I hope you enjoyed the ‘veal’.” Everyone’s crying, but I’m like, ‘I get it. You so crazy, Gamma.’
Life of Pi Type Scenario
My Disney Cruise vacation has gone horribly wrong, and now I’m all alone in a lifeboat, adrift in the Atlantic Ocean. Fortunately, I’ve salvaged several items from the watery tomb: three water jugs, a knife, a length of wire, and a blowtorch. But no food! ‘What can I do for noms,’ I wonder. I try using the knife to stab passing fish, but fish move too fast. I search my pockets for candy, but only find wrappers. Then I have a brilliant idea: I’ll cut off bits of my arms and legs, tie off the stumps with wire, cauterize the wounds with the blowtorch, and gobble those meat nuggets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, mmm. Why didn’t I think of it before? For the next couple weeks, I slowly eat myself alive until I’m reduced to a gibbering one armed torso, like one of those inflatable clowns kids punch. At which point, I’m finally rescued by a passing fishing boat. Phew, that was a close one.
Scared of Offending a Tribe of Cannibals
I’m deep in the Amazon, investigating an isolated native tribe for National Geographic. At first, the natives seem friendly and reasonable, but then — dinnertime. They haul in a bawling Andrew Zimmern, and I say, “Hey, that’s Andrew Zimmern! I love him!” Before I can protest, a native wearing a grinning red demon mask chops him to pieces, roasts the pieces on a spit, and mixes the pieces with Cajun Alfredo, mmm (Cajun Alfredo’s my favorite, so although improbable, it’s an essential variable in provoking me to cannibalism). They offer me a plate of Alfredo. I say, “No, that’s Andrew Zimmern; I love that guy.” They look hurt and confused. I say, “Bizarre Foods?” No reaction. I say “Travel Channel?” Nothing. By this point, they just look so disappointed, and I don’t want to offend anyone, so I say, “Okay, give me the Alfredo.” It’s delicious, just as I knew it would be.
It Meant I Could Devour Souls
A new study in Scientific American finds humans can actually devour the soul (i.e. memories, knowledge, life force) of anyone by eating them. Upon learning this, I interview for a position at a nearby hospital morgue because I’m hungry for immortality and also the vast accumulated wisdom of the elderly (they lived through Boardwalk Empire and polio!). But it’s not long before bereaved family members start asking what happened to their loved ones’ dead bodies, and the hospital administrator fires me. I then interview for a position at a nearby funeral home. But after a few months of employment, someone opens a coffin and discovers her dad’s chest cavity stuffed with French bread, walnuts, celery, onion, butter, raisins, olives, etc. — fired again. So I eat my roommates. Without roommates to help pay rent, I’m forced to move back in with my parents back in Texas, and I’m like, ‘Oh man, what was I thinking?’
Met a Man Made of Cake with No Family or Friends
On my way to the grocery store, I run into a man made of chocolate cake. “Oh my God, you’re made of cake!” I say. “How is this possible?” He explains to me how quantum vacuum fluctuations work, how probabilities exist, however miniscule, that fission, tunneling, air currents, and gravity might align to spontaneously configure atoms into a living breathing Cakeman. He then laments how, being the first of his kind, he has no family, no peers, no one else who can understand what it is to be a Cakeman. “There’s no one I can truly love,” he says sadly. “Yes,” I say. “And no one to mourn you.” Then I tear off his chocolate arm and shove it into my gaping maw. His agonized screams echo through the city streets as I plunge my long pale fingers into his creamy guts, the first and last of his kind vivisected on the cold concrete.
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