There’s a Mother Jones article entitled Big Meat vs. Michael Pollan. And in interviews, Michael Pollan claims the beef industry is out to get him…
Michael Pollan rubs his hand over the hot motor oil sweat of his forehead. His eyes go to the chandelier. Shit, he didn’t check that yet. Maybe the meat industry thugs hid their listening devices in there. He grabs a screwdriver, loosens the plate from the ceiling. Removes the outer shell and shines his maglite into the socket cap. There. Could be light bulb filament, but you never know with the meat industry and their high-tech listening devices. He removes it and washes it down the disposal. Imagining the meat industry ops in their truck, sound of the garbage disposal exploding their ears, Michael Pollan laughs out loud, harsh laughter like his voice is scraping over metal. But then he sees a shadowy form moving outside the window. He peels back the curtain. It’s a guy from Time Warner Cable. Shit. Michael Pollan doesn’t have cable. It must be one of the meat industry ops in disguise. Michael Pollan falls to the ground so the op can’t detect him with his body heat detector. How can he convince the meat industry to leave him alone? Maybe he could go the dairy council, cut a deal. He doesn’t talk as much about dairy in his books. But, shit, who’s he kidding? They have it out for him too. Who can he trust? Joel Salatin, the friendly farmer from Polyface farm. He takes out the pre-paid cellphone he bought earlier in the day and dials.
“Joel, it’s Michael.”
“Michael, speak up, I’m butchering one of the sheep and I can’t hear you over her bleating.”
"Which sheep?"
"Sally."
"I remember feeding her on your farm. She’d bounce around and rub her nuzzle against me. She was adorable."
"Still is. Will be for a couple more seconds, too."
“That's why the beef industry’s after me. They read my books talking about all the happy animals on farms like yours and they think I’m against slaughtering cattle.”
“I’ll vouch for you. Hell, when you were at my farm we slaughtered cattle, pigs, chickens, rabbits, turkeys, sheep…"
"It’s not good enough for them. I criticize factory farms in my books.”
"You’re only doing it to make a buck. The beef people ought to be okay with that.
"Thanks, Joel, I appreciate the support. Shhh, there’s a clicking sound on the line!
"That clicking ain't on the line, Michael, I’m re-loading my stun bolt gun."
"The line’s tapped! It's the beef council. They're on to us!"
Michael Pollan slams down the phone. He slips out the back door. he turns into a dark alley and runs.
