Oh, Blessed Flatulence!

 

 

And it came to pass that I read of another appeal to the world (but, actually, only to the West), to change our sinful ways against goddess Gaia. This time, no less than eleven thousand “scientists” explained to us that we are really, really, really in an emergency and, unless we want to die, we will have to avoid being born. The eleven thousand (who, I think, were, every single one of them, actually born) pontificated about how necessary it is to change our ways and reduce our numbers.

They fell short, I think, of mentioning Adolf. But I am sure that he is near to their beneficent hearts. 

I wonder if, by this reduction, they meant a massive reduction of the Chinese or Indian population. I actually think they meant, mainly, us; because, in case you don’t know, these people hate Whites with a passion, and want them gone. 

Being the friendly nature that I am, encouraged by this reading, and endowed with a typically Italian sunny disposition, I decided to take prompt action. 

On the way home from work, I proceeded to steer the fresh meat counter at the local supermarket, and bought a massive rumpsteak. The thought of the Co2 caused by the animal privileged with giving me such a tasty nourishment was already causing a happy sense of anticipation. 

Once home, I proceeded to cook the rumpsteak “New York style” (then it should not be said that I hate everything that comes from there, particularly now that Trump has moved his official residence to Florida). A small mountain of butter was ready to be melted in the pan and, and the appropriate time, repeatedly poured over the cooking steak, again and again, as the flavour of the melted butter mixed in perfect harmony with the smell of the juicy, savoury steak. 

I left (as you do) the steak rest a while after the end of the procedure, then we all non-Gaia people know that the juices must have the time to uniformly spread within the steak, improving its taste and tenderness. When the time was ripe, I proceeded to prepare a beautiful, very anti-Greta dish with a side of mashed potatoes. I confess, here, that I did not know how anti-potatoes the Eleven Thousand are; but I reflected that it is only a matter of time until they are against potatoes, too. I suspect, though, that Kale will be fine. 

The melted butter over the steak was a sight for tired eyes. The first delving of the knife into the buttery delight revealed a tender, juicy, medium-cooked consistency that promised a great deal of enjoyment. I proceeded, not without some trepidation, to introduce the first mouthful to my eagerly awaiting taste buds. 

Oh, blessed flatulence! Oh, generous ungulate! How much you both, working together over many months, have made this miracle possible! 

I focused, with almost mystical devotion, on the huge amount of Co2 that the animal who gave me this steak must have caused during the process of its slow formation. I tried to picture the ugly face of Greta cringing at the idea, and visualised her just there, very near the source of those “emissions” she loathes, in self-righteous pain. I made a mental image of the Eleven Thousand, crying in anguish every time my knife proceeded to isolate another delightful piece of environmentally sinful nourishment, as the meaty and buttery pleasure alternated with the simple, earthy savour of my side dish. Perhaps should I search the internet for the kind of side dish that causes most Co2 emissions? I owe it to the Eleven Thousand, surely? 

In due time, the meal had run its course, washed by the red wine never absent from the table of the sensible Italian. I felt pleasantly sated, and satisfied with the good feeling of having, actually, done something good for the Planet. I closed the meal with a small glass of Whiskey; sipping it very slowly, one drop at a time, as is the custom of my people, and wondering to what extent I was, with that little, simple gesture, contributing to World Happiness by angering Adolf’s Sturmtruppen.

I really need to become more environmentally aware, because those lunatics are something that concerns us all.

And so my meal went to its appointed end, and I felt sated, satisfied, at peace with the world, and conscious of my active contribution to conscious Co2 emissions for the day. 

But I need to do more. 

We all do. 

Greta and the Eleven Thousand make it necessary that we do so.