New!

Newness is an obsession in our world, at the direct expense and devaluation of the old.  In some ways, equating newness with superiority is practical.  New car runs better than old car.  Freshly baked bread tastes better than old bread.  New teacher replaces crusty retiree and brings needed positive energy to classroom.  

There are real downsides to fetishizing newness, and they are currently biting our society in the ass pretty hard.  Here are a few examples and their results:

New electronics!	Planned obsolescence and teeming landfills.
New clothes!	Child sweatshop labor in Bangladesh in collapsing buildings.
ZOMG kitties and puppies at the mall pet store!	Any shelter animal over 6 months of age dies there, usually by injection or gas.
Under new management!	New pantheon of grotesquely overpaid paperclip jockeys who assign you at least 3x more work at the same pay.
She’s a virgin!	License to commodify and rape because maleness is evolutionary suicide.
She’s pregnant!	Fetus alert!  Preserve the unborn’s life at all costs, including the woman’s autonomy, health, finances, and future.

If you want to understand the problems inherent with newness-obsession, rent or steal yourself a viewing of any big-budget American film made after the year 2000.  Preferably the film should be a SEQUEL or a REBOOT, but any crappy blockbuster that involves superheroes or aliens will do.  

'Murica!

 What you are looking for is a portrait of ‘Murica, a relatively new Empire that churns these crappy reboot/sequels out at a rate of at least 20 per month during peak moviegoing season.  Like the milksop children of a fervid Evangelical and his crispy-poodle haired, dead-eyed walking uterus of a wife, the offspring of American big-budget film directors is disturbingly homogenous, as if one giant super egg split off into various smaller eggs a la the asexual reproduction process described in Brave New World.  

There will be lots of car chases, explosions, and at least one unattractive yet funny sidekick. Exploration of human relationships will be limited to token happy heterosexual romance between a dominant male and a skinny woman, some beloved parent or mentor conveniently dying either on or off-script, and the rescue of a pregnant woman or young child in distress.  Plot?  There isn’t one, however, there are loose ramblings about Our Hero needing to protect the Earth from Apocalypse.  

Said Apocalypse is caused by whatever CGI supervillain can be conjured out of the psychological morass of manufactured Islamophobia and deindustrialization-anxiety zeitgeist that constitutes current thought. Now with more Earth-magma slurping prostheses

Notice how important newness is as a factor in the film.  It’s almost the starring role, isn’t it?  The explosions are bigger and brighter.  There are more of them than last year/decade.  The actors are either young or aggressively Photoshopped to look that way.  The hero has new powers, a new vehicle, a brighter, shinier costume.  The alien/villain adversary is a “NEW DIMENSION OF EVIL” and can perform new evil deeds with his large, enhanced, Earth-core sucking appendages. In which newness begins to SUCK  

What everyone fails to realize, let alone mention, is that newness can suck.  That first sexual experience?  It’s routinely awful, awkward, and weird for at least 50% of those involved.  The machines designed to keep grandma alive despite her kidneys and liver failing?  I wouldn’t call that form of subsistence a life.  All those new human “miracle” babies being born to the tune of 350,000 plus per day?  They’re leading us down the quick garden path to the possible near term extinction of life as we know it.  All that new technology that was supposed to save us from the consequences of human greed and reckless environmental omnicide?  Clearly not working.

That aging celebrity (maybe he was in the movie you watched!) who sired a child at age 68 and whose plastic surgery attempts to look younger have rendered him as a ghastly, perpetually-surprised burn victim version of his former self?  

Wouldn’t it be better if he just let himself GROW OLD?

Rapists Gonna Rape: An Open Letter To Those Writing Open Letters to Brock & Dan Turner

Dear Friends and Neighbors,

This is not another open letter to Brock Turner or his father! This is an open letter to all of those who would write open letters to rapists and the parents of rapists.  This is a letter to all of those people who are outraged about a white rapist skipping merrily through a less than six-month sentence in jail, not prison.  This is a letter to everyone except rapists who, much like King Louis XVI of France, could not be reached at this time.

Rapists gonna rape.

Rapists rape because that’s what rapists do.  Rapists are an exceedingly common breed of demonic human male.  As the inferior sex, many males are wired for rapey violence.  They have possibly genetic-level damage that makes them unable to limit themselves to consensual sexual behavior.  

There are rapists of every color, creed, and financial level.  No matter what economic circumstance they are born to, rapists believe they are entitled to other people’s bodies from a young age.  The bodies in question can be those of women, girls, boys, non-human animals, whatever.  Of course it does not help that nurture abets their flawed nature, and patriarchy assists them in their pursuit of stealing what they believe is already theirs.

So enough of your cute entreaties that try to paint a picture of Brock Turner’s victim’s humanity for his rapey dad, okay?  Neither Brock Turner nor his dad give a shit, no matter what you say.  No rapist ever thought of his victim as human and he never will.  Haven’t you seen A Clockwork Orange?  

Brock Turner can and will rape again.  

So will 99% of rapists put in prison.  If you keep them in prison long enough, perhaps their preferences will turn to other males out of necessity.  This is not better. 

Most of the time, rapists do not spend a lifetime in prison for rape on the rare occasions they are caught.  They will get out; they will rape again.  You just won’t recognize their victims or have outrage about it because caught rapists will either:

A. Hide their future rapes more effectively

B. Do it to somebody you don’t care about as much, like an incarcerated transwoman, a woman of color, or a prostitute 

There is but one punishment that will stop rapists from raping, and neither does it involve castration nor does it enlist a butch incarcerated gentleman to introduce the rapist to the charming realm of forced anal and oral penetration.

The one thing that stops a rapist is a bullet in the back of his skull where neck meets head.  

Sweet, permanent DEATH

Upon the revelation of concrete evidence, such as, oh I dunno, two men on bicycles riding past a dumpster where some dead-eyed white suburban manchild is raping a woman he just met that night and could not successfully seduce, the rapist should be arrested and quietly taken to a quiet place and executed.

No trial, no family or highly-paid attorney making up excuses about how Brocky boy just wanted a little nonconsensual “action”.  

Just death, and he never rapes again.  

It’s not kind to the rapist, for sure, but it is exceedingly beneficial to the individuals the rapist will never get a chance to rape.  Execution not only ensures the rapist will never use any instrument, including his penis, to rape another human being, it guarantees the rapist will never inculcate his own progeny or pals with the type of selfishness and greed that culminates in the sexual violation of someone else.

Speedy execution also sends a crystal clear message that rape as a manifestation of male pattern violence will not be incarcerated, tolerated, gently reasoned with, or molly-coddled until it surely happens again.

It won’t happen again, at least not by that rapist in particular, because he will be dead.

Our society, as much as we like to grandstand, is not progressive.  We are backwards, ineffectual, liberal wafflers who look the other way when priests rape children and when TV stars known best for hawking frozen pudding desserts trick aspiring stars into eating roofies and then victim-blame them for being trusting souls.  We enslave our fellow human beings for cheap clothing and dumb stuff like chocolate and coffee.  We abuse and enslave animals and use up their habitats by reproducing our own narcissistic flesh mirrors.  We are disgusting and as a species, as contemptible as we are shallow.  We love injustice and worship the rich and powerful among us.  We don’t punish wrongdoers, instead, we joke about rape in prisons (where the incarcerated are mostly poor people of color who turned to selling drugs because they couldn’t make a living under the current oppressive oligarchy) because that’s easier than dealing with our own weaknesses in punishing those who actually deserve it. That’s just us.

The Audacity of Change

We could change our wimpy ways though, and with an exponentially-expanding population of over 7.4 billion of us at time of current writing, I don’t think anyone would miss a few Brock Turners.

If life on a planet of 7.4 billion is cheap, then the life of a rapist should be BARGAIN BASEMENT GOING OUT OF BUSINESS CLEARANCE SALE cheap.

I'm always full of ideas!

If the state won’t punish the Brock Turners of the world (or do anything else, such as provide affordable housing, education, clean water, health care, etc.) we have no choice but to take it into our own hands.  It’s up to us to punish the Brock Turners of the world, and that means:

-Not giving them jobs

-Not dating or marrying them

-Not letting them have a nice time and a normal life if they move into our neighborhood

In other words, we need to make life NOT OKAY for Bill Cosby, even though he’s not in jail yet and may never be. When Bill Cosby or Brock’s dad shows up at a party, they should have to worry about a small amount of powdered poison, perhaps the dried leaf of one of many common house plants, in their food.  They shouldn’t be able to own a car they’re not apprehensive about parking in a public place, because they just know some vengeful asshole from the community at large is going to dump a bottle of nail polish remover on their engine hood, flatten their tires, or spray paint RAPIST or PROUD DAD OF A RAPIST on their driver’s side door.  Again.  Their ridiculous wives, girlfriends, and mothers should be shamed and excluded both online and in real life for standing by like idle automatons.  

Hackers, crackers, and all of you writing nasty little bits of code to destroy random computers.  Isn't it time you found targets who actually deserve it?  Brock Turner's father looks like a Window's PC/Yahoo email sort of guy.  That stuff is child's play.

We can make rapists pay without shooting them in the back of their skulls, and until we progress to a point where we can destroy rapists in a sensible way, guerrilla tactics will have to suffice.

In My World

I want a world where rapists, upon being found guilty, are taken into a quiet corner and shot in the back of the head where brain meets spine, because dead rapists have a 0% recidivism rate.

I want a world where parenting requires a series of revocable licenses.

I want a world where politicians who drone bomb little kids in comparatively less well-off countries for fun and profit are introduced to Madame Guillotine along with the bankers who finance them.

I want a world where politicians who get $600 haircuts and host $10,000 a plate dinners are forced to work twenty hour a day shifts at Walmart for minimum wage until the moment comes for them to be guillotined.

I want a world where trigger-happy law enforcers who who shoot people simply because they are black or brown are worked to death in labor camps.  

I want a world where it is not up to other prison inmates in General Population to punish child molesters, because:

A. For-profit prisons are abolished
B. Anyone who commits a serious crime earns an immediate death sentence

I want a world where getting pregnant or getting someone pregnant is implicitly understood as a reckless indulgence and a travesty, because we are multiplying at an exponential rate and will soon suffer the consequences in a more severe fashion than the one we have been accustomed to.

I want a world where the vivisectors who currently torture animals are vivisected on live television.  I’m thinking Pay Per View.

I want a world where bigots, homophobes, and transphobes fear for their lives, constantly running from those who would beat them within an inch of their lives, never knowing which meal the fatal dose of poison will arrive in, provided they’re able to score a meal from a source other than a garbage can.  I want a world where they have a legitimate reason to be afraid.

I want a world where any male who threatens rape (online or off) is punished by getting a finger cut off.  If he runs out of fingers, we take his dick.  

I want a world where unrepentant animal abusers are forced to work in sweatshops and coal mines until they die.

I want a world where any home or business that sits empty for more than one year is automatically public property, at which point it is either turned down or retrofitted for low-income housing.

I want a world where the richest 5%, starting with the tiny fraction of 1% at the tippy-top, have two choices:

A. Donate and redistribute all of your assets to provide clean water, housing, and schools to the poorest people on the planet until your income is based on what you can earn per year doing blue collar labor OR
B. Be worked to death, along with any heirs or people who were set to inherit your obscene wealth, in labor camps.  I’m thinking garbage sorting and nuclear waste management.

I want a world where there are rehab centers to help people to quit eating meat, dairy, and eggs and where necrovore trolls are subject to a good, old-fashioned pillory until they come to their senses.

I want a world where the streets run with the blood of the cruel, the wicked, and the greedy.

An Exploration of Necrovore Logic

The first rule of necrovore logic is that necrovores don’t engage in logical patterns of thinking, therefore it is useful to frame their version of reality in a context of Bizarro World, a spinoff of the comic book series Batman originally released in the early 1960s.  Bizarro World takes place on htraE, a cube-shaped planet where everything and everyone is either silly or backwards.

Necrovore “logic”, like Bizarro World, is inverted.  In our world, eating corpse flesh (meat), titty-juice from non-human animals (dairy), and vaginal secretions of hens (eggs) has been proven in study after study to be absolutely unnecessary and fabulously destructive to human health, yet necrovores continue to suck down dead bodies and torture squirts as if they didn’t cause cancer, diabetes, MS, Parkinson’s disease, Alzheimer’s, etc.

Necrovore doctors, true to their Bizarro aesthetic, do not truly practice medicine outside the realm of bonesetting and appendix removal.  Instead, their role is to prop up large insurance and drug cartels while pretending to provide “care” for the masses of other necrovores who pretend not to know better.

I Don’t Drink That Much Beer

If you want to truly understand the logic of the necrovore, find yourself a dive bar where alcoholics like to congregate.  Then ask a random sad looking, red nosed, beer-bellied dude why he keeps drinking even though his wife left him and he blacks out every weekend he’s not in the hospital waiting for his liver to fail.  You will hear all of the same reasons necrovores trot out when they are confronted about their own bad habits: it feels good, I can stop anytime I want, all my friends are doing it.

Necrovore logic resembles superstitious faith, the sort of “my destiny is whatever I believe it is going to be” sort of crap pushed by New Age crackpots.  Necrovores cannot recognize the concept of actions having consequences, and believe that the sheer act of conformity will magically save them as individuals from the consequences of the crimes on their plates.   The mantra of the necrovore is “It won’t ever happen to me”, in reference to everything from health problems to the coming extinction of nearly all life on the planet.   Never mind their own children and grandchildren will suffer in the bottlenecks and eventual extinction they’ve partially caused; that whole “I’d do anything for my kids” thing comes to a screeching halt if it means being the only vegan at a party or forgoing the convenience of a fast food joint because it doesn’t offer a vegan option.

Logic Hint: If you can’t eat it raw without risk of dying, you probably shouldn’t eat it at all

Necrovores are irresponsible creatures incapable of understanding their controlled substances of choice are toxic both to themselves and the environment.  Necrovore "food", almost without exception, cannot or should not be eaten raw because of disturbing consequences, such as:

-Disease from feces from both the flesh/secretion itself and the fact animals crap themselves
-Salmonella
-Flesh eating Staphylococcus aureus (turns out what you eat can eat you)
-Shigella
-Listeria
-Brain-eating, epilepsy-causing tapeworms (pork and sushi)

Though any rational person would think: “Oh okay, I’ll just make cookie dough I can eat without the inherent risk of shitting myself to death afterwards”, the necrovore cannot process anything that resembles common sense and continues to indiscriminately chow down on whatever she or he is offered by the surrounding group of idiots.  In some cases, necrovores eschew raw flesh and secretions in favor of cooked, whimsically “forgetting” the science linking their addiction to just about every human ailment outside of the Black Plague.  Sadly, necrovores indoctrinate their children from infancy to believe the same set of peasant superstitions, hence the phenomenon of little kids eating hotdogs (processed meat is a carcinogen on the level of cigarettes and asbestos according to the WHO).

The Cow Says Moo!

Necrovores are defensive of their baroque forms of rationalization, such as the one about plants having feelings.  When a rational human is confronted with a necrovore spewing the Ad Plantarum fallacy, the best approach is not to engage.  However, if one has a great deal of time to kill and feels the need to be a do-gooder, the most effective method of getting through a necrovore’s thick skull is to dumb it down to his level, for instance:

Q. What does the cow SAY?
A. MOO

*lightning bonus round*

Q. What does the cow EAT?
(Please choose one)

A. Rocks
B. Air
C. Rainbows
D. Unicorn farts
E. Rainbow unicorn farts covered with rocks and puffed with air
F. Grass

G. A slurry of ocean bycatch, dead shelter animals, with OODLES of GMO soy

If the necrovore answers F., gently inform him that he has just lost, because even though only a tiny percentage of farmed cows are fed grass, it still means his ass got owned by Ad Plantarum, as it takes at least 17x the amount of plant-matter in the form of grass to feed to a cow compared to using the same space to feed a human directly.  If he answered G., he has lost and has also begun to admit a truth versus his utopian “I’m okay, you’re okay” Matrix of delusion, so you should give him a little pat on the back.

Necrovores eat dead and rotten body parts, fermented, congealed tit milk, and hen abortions like it is going out of style, probably because it is going out of style.  Their actions have never been nor ever will be grounded in rational thinking, so the best we can do is to be glad we no longer dwell in their bass-ackward mental cesspool.

An Open Letter to the Next Mass Shooter

The following message is directed towards the next school/club/theater shooter.  You know who you are.  

You’re angry.  The world fucking owes you, man.  At least you think so, and your opinion MATTERS.  To you.

You’re a male, of course.  It’s not even a question.  As a member of the inferior sex, you’re just prone to want to kill random people with guns, and hilariously, because ‘Muricans love guns way more than little kids, you’ve got a whole collection of “legal” firearms. Awwwww......

It’s not ever your fault, it’s our society or maybe your mommy abused you or your daddy was a racist some big-vaginaed woman said that trying to ride your teensy weensy (which was flaccid because you prefer big, hairy, butch ape men and could never admit it) was like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Your precious fee-fees were hurt so now you’re a homicidal maniac blah blah blah.  

The Void awaits

At any rate, you’re a sad, sad, lonely man with a gargantuan ego and an even larger entitlement complex.  They will call you a lone wolf shortly after you take a dozen bullets to your scrotum (perhaps you should not have used it as your primary organ of cognition) and you and all your dreams will end in one terrifying second as you realize neither Heaven nor Hell awaits, just a terrifying flash-memory of everybody you disappointed and a one-way, screaming-in-protest-holy-shit-if-only-I-could-go-back-in-time ticket to the black, eternal void.  

No more you!  

As a wannabe serial killer who has a few more brain cells than you, meaning just enough so I don’t think I’m a speshul snowflake who could not possibly ever be wrong-headed, I would like to make a suggestion for your impending swan song.

How about taking your coup de grace act to a room of Wall Street executives?    In a world where Gwyneth Paltrow has her own restaurant, what the hell are you doing marching into a gay man’s club?  

Seriously, if you have a semi-automatic weapon and a grudge, there are plenty of country clubs and executive power retreats where you could gleefully introduce the very unheard-of and nouveau notion that infinite greed comes with infinite consequences.   You want to be a hero?  Want to start a cool trend?  There are Nestlé, Monsanto, and Dow Chemical CEOs with your name on their heads; it is written there between their eyes under the Number of the Beast.  You could be doing the whole world a huge public service.  You would be praised like a god long after your death.  

Instead, you choose mediocrity.

You target universities, because you’re dumb.  You target gay clubs, because you can’t admit you want to be corn-holed by other males.  You target sororities, because you are dweeby and unpopular.  You target schools full of kids because you can’t stand that you’re not King Bully of the schoolyard anymore.  

You’re a loser. After you die, you’ll be the worst sort of loser… a FORGOTTEN loser!  

Don't forget to pucker up when you kiss the void.

Hillary and the $10,000 Umbrella Stand that F**ked the World

You can trust this person... to hide from the nuclear apocalypse she orchestrated!

The year 2019... the Earth is deep in a nuclear winter.

The United States is but a smoking rubble heap; a gray, cold, sulphur-stinking open pit of skeletal half-buildings, endless ruined tract housing, blown out bridges and abandoned cars.  The rest of the world isn't doing too great either, suffering inconveniences such as skin-eating acid rain, radiation cancers, birth defects, and mass starvation.

This is what happens when you piss off countries with more power than you.

Safe tho

Somewhere, President Hillary Clinton cackles in her tricked-out secret bunker.  While Russia and China blew the US to smithereens, she and her one percent pals giggled like a rapist who received a few month's jail time instead of a prison sentence because of white privilege.  While the cities of the US were blown back into the year 5 billion B.C, Hillary and pals sipped fine wine from the province of Burgundy that cost 3x as much as some poor kid's cancelled college scholarship.

He won't need it though.  He's dead.

Outrageous!  How did we ever let it get to this point?  How could the US elect a psychopathic warmonger clearly and blatantly overjoyed to push the red button?  Wasn't there some other guy running who didn't have a dead, bleach-orange ferret on his head?

Don't blame Hillary Clinton or the unhinged Illuminati bankers and Monsanto executives who pull her puppet strings hiding in bunkers.

Blame the real culprit.

Blame Hillary's $10,000 umbrella stand.

Hillary Clinton has not been human since her days as a Goldwater Girl, that halcyon era when she still was able to use her pudgy, vanilla pudding brand of sensuality to advance herself to the highest executive bidder.  Hillary's complete lack of personal conviction and spongy morality made her a easy target for sleazebags, hence her marriage to Bill Clinton.  She was also vulnerable to a far more secret, potent adversary of mankind, the $10,000 umbrella stand.


The innocuous $10,000 umbrella stand.  You might think it is just a normal umbrella stand, but expensive.

You would be DEAD WRONG.  All umbrella stands are inherently diabolical because they are the embodiment of demonic space entities who were trapped in the center of the Earth millions of years ago.  Umbrella stands priced at 10K and above are the heads of the Mystical Ultimate High Priesthood of Umbrella Stands, or MUH-PUS.

Umbrella stands are obsessed with nuclear war, regardless of the fact many umbrella stands perish in nuclear wars.  Like Hillary Clinton, umbrella stands don't understand what nuclear war means, because they have no concept of actions causing consequences.

Really, what do you expect from a demonic umbrella stand?

Hillary Clinton once had a soul

I do realize I am asserting the ludicrous notion Hillary Clinton once had a soul.  Back when Hillary identified as a RepubliKKKan, there were a few glimmers of humanity buried under all that pathological, white girl hatred of black men.  Though most of her personality has sought power for its own sake the majority of her life, at one point Hillary had a small internal debate about whether or not to cheat on an exam.  Of course she chose to cheat, duh (how else do you think she became President?) yet there was a tiny spark of "Maybe I shouldn't cheat."  Once this weak glow was mercilessly stamped out, Hillary's thoughts wandered to home decor.

Home decor as a gateway drug!

Hillary is the exact type of white person that owns an umbrella stand, which gave the demonic entity a way in.  Pricey umbrella stands have always been de rigeur in certain greedy circles, as it is the finishing touch to a rich person's grand foyer.  One might argue that the umbrella stand is even more essential than the Farrow & Ball wallpaper or the hand-knotted wool rug washed in the tears of Persian children.

Of course Hillary had to have an umbrella stand -- how could she even pretend to concern herself with issues like universal health care (LOL that didn't happen) or affordable college education (don't even ask) when HER FOYER HAD A CHEAP UMBRELLA STAND?  Sure, Hillary's corpulent, middle class, divorced housewife equivalent in her tacky, $650,000 new construction vinyl-siding suburbox is satisfied with a $90 umbrella stand from HomeGoods (ugh can you even?), but Hillary Clinton knows she deserves better.

Umbrella stand goes to war

The umbrella stand, once in Hillary's life, began to run the show, because that's what demonic umbrella stands do.  Libya?  Overthrow the government!  Syria?  Same thing!  NATO?  Bring that shit right up to the Russian border!  ISIL?  Sell them some guns!  Ukraine?  Fund neo-Nazis in the name of democracy!  Hillary might not have known who she was pissing off (or maybe she thought she was doing it to profit from war and steal oil), but the umbrella stand knew full well.  Overworked, Kardashian-addicted 'Muricans were nonplussed when Hillary's and her cronies tried their illegal coup in Ukraine -- 'Muricans had other things to think about, such as how to get to the next paycheck without becoming homeless -- but once she started recruiting 18 - 25 year old young men and women for her suicidal campaign against Putin, even the dim-witted dullards of 'Murica knew they were in for it.

As she had done many times in the past, Hillary & Co. manufactured a false flag bombing of a city.  This time it was European city close to the Russian border, so even though nobody believed it, she claimed Russian terrorist anti-US militants were responsible.  One thing led to another, and soon Hillary was sending bombs and and a few, proud, disposable young men from the states of North Carolina and Kentucky to become "heroes" in Moscow.  Not a lot, just a couple thousand of them to show them the US meant business.

Mistake.

One dead world empire and severely-bottlenecked population later, there aren't any Americans left to put Hillary's head on the stake where it belonged all this time.  Any Americans who survived are too busy watching their children die of starvation and radiation sickness to care about some greedy politician and her foyer accessory (along with some fine linens and well-considered dining room seating) holed up in a lava-proof bunker in Iceland.

Necrovores Can't Take A Joke

Just keep believing animal fat isn't related to diabetes and you'll be fine... except you won't have toes.

Dear Necrovores,

You are annoying and your sense of humor sucks.  As vegans, we can hardly blame you for your constant general lack of good cheer, tendency towards the negative, and fervid, evangelistic desire to recruit others into your misery club.  

Unlike you, we vegans eat plants, so we are not dealing with:

A. Chronic cycles of approximately 4 -  20 days worth of constipation broken only by either hour-length sessions of violent, hemorrhoid-inducing straining or crampy diarrhea

AND

B. A constant state of paranoid defensiveness arising from a long-buried sense of morality where you realize you wouldn’t want to be treated like the animals you eat and exploit

If vegans had to deal with being full of shit (literally), I suppose we would be humorless, insufferable boobs too.

But for now, you necrovores have got the patent on that. My Jokes Are Funnier Than Yours Since your idea of a joke usually involves the suffering of an innocent being you think the world owes you to eat or use, I’m here to inform you my jokes are funnier than yours.

That one about bacon?   Your kid’s fried ass cheek tastes about the same, according to the good cannibals of the world.  If God didn’t mean for someone to eat your children, why did He make them out of meat?  Hilarity ensues when you can’t tell the difference between a pig’s belly and your kid’s in a taste test.  Could you tell the difference?  Let’s make it happen.  I’m happy to wait until you reproduce.  I’m very patient.

I want my baby back baby back baby back.... BARBECUE SAUCE!

That one about vegans being weak and sickly?   Nice try.

That one about plants having feelings?   That’s a self-defeating joke, as you eat cheese and the flesh of cows who feed on tons of GMO corn and soy.  Yeah, I hate to break it to you, all those visions of animals eating magic stones and rainbows that populate your tortured, superstitious, childish mind don’t reflect what happens in real life.  The Earth’s last rainforests are cut down for your addiction, so dumbass, please don’t make a fool of yourself telling us about your vegetable rights activism. Let's See... Looks like you've covered logical fallacies, especially ad hominem attacks, threats of rape, and racist slurs when trying to be "funny". Here's a clue: none of that shit is funny and you actually deserve severe and unforeseen comeuppance for it. Here's to retribution being delivered to you in a timely, but ultimately surprising fashion.  

Nothing to see here!  No need to worry!

Your Future, Not Mine :-)
My jokes, however, aren’t just funny in the short run.  It’s the long game at which my jokes excel.  
For every animal you eat, I’m going to do an extra lap around your future nursing home.  The Death of A Thousand Cuts awaits you and yours, my friend, caused by your current “free choice” to stuff little bits and pieces of cadavers and titty/vag squirts down your greedy gullet because you harbor a mental delusion that your body needs someone to die in order for you to live.  The last laugh will be on my face when I pedal my new bike around your Hellpit of Eternal Stench.

I’ll wave to you from outside while you slowly die in the care of underpaid nurse aides who routinely fail to change your soggy, rancid diapers.  Health is wealth, and by that standard, you are going to be very, very poor no matter what your portfolio looks like.  I don’t think you’ll enjoy your stay in the land of shunts and MRSA, though it will be a fitting culmination for certain.  Please have them try and crack one of the windows on that airless, reeking place, so I can hear the soft murmurs of you and your necrovore pals begging for death.  So much for you telling me to kill myself -- you’ll wish for me to come and kill you someday, but I am certain to have better things to do than relieve you of your suffering.  

I suppose anything, including death, is preferable to watching ancient syndicated re-runs of Two and a Half-Men while awaiting the next amputation/catheter insertion as your roommate babbles about how his four kids never visit.  What a lonely, scary, helpless future.  The animal’s lives now and your life in exchange later.  No wonder your sense of humor is so impaired.  Look what you’ve got coming!

You don’t think such a fate could happen to you?  That your speshul snowflake body needs flesh, titty milk, and hen abortions to stay healthy?  

Maybe you're getting somewhere, because that’s funny.