The Problem of Extremism or what the friggin’ hell are you talking about?
I’m no vegan, let’s get that out of the way.
I love my steaks medium-rare to well-done, my roast chicken falling off the bones, my pompano scalding hot, spare ribs baked in honey, and my pork dishes so soft you’d think they’re made of hypoallergenic pillows.
I hardly take a meal without green leafy veggies as a side dish. Cream on lettuce makes my day; boiled pechay, too. I like ’em lush, well-nigh raw, crisp, thoroughly washed and garden-fresh. Potatoes are heaven-sent; carrots, on the other hand, felt like I’m going through root canal procedure. I also loathe anything slimy.
I grew up in a family — both paternal and maternal — where, through the years, we’ve cared for 12 German Shepherds, three American Collies, a huge male Boxer, a couple of bushy-haired mongrels, hundreds of hens, roosters, geese, goats, horses, cattle, and of late, a little over a hundred cats.
Growing up, I had a fondness for goldfish, little baby crabs, a family of sweetheart turtles, two chatty Oxford-trained green parrots with red-orange beaks, one wayward sparrow, and an overweight, largely cumbersome fowl I named Onassis.
I’ve spent much of my adult life as a two-person cat rescue unit, my wife Che as Commander-in-Chief. We’ve saved, fed, and babied more of this feline cuteness from Manila’s streets than the Office of the Solicitor General can bail out its darling rogue officials from charges of corruption.
My flower garden has played host to several carpenter bees, dragonflies, grasshoppers, wooly caterpillars, those cute white and yellow butterflies, leeches, snails, bullfrogs, swarms of mosquitoes, and other creatures.
On the more vicious side of life, I’ve probably killed tens of thousands of cockroaches, two wasps, untold number of flesh and blow flies, three green and brown whip snakes, one spider which, I was sure, was a Black Widow, and a full-grown scorpion. That last one died after I slumped on my dormitory bed in college, too drunk to notice.
Years ago, I’ve had the largely nauseous distinction of tasting grilled dog meat, cat sauteed in garlic, soy and vinegar, snake soup, and cured horse meat — all unknowingly and quite drunkenly gobbled down with one too many beers. I was simply too sloshed to tell. That’s why I hate pranks.
Mice and rats, by the way, find it almost impossible to get their tiny little hands on our stash of cheese, thanks to my feline ninjas. The only thing I find really gross is when my cats, thinking I’m one of their own, serve these vermin at my front door shortly after a kill — still bloody and warm from the hunt.
Today, I busy myself with a sprawling flower garden and my pride of cats. The occasional scarab beetle (or is it the stag beetle?) lands on my laptop, usually in the dead of night, just so I can save them from my feline friends.
Still, I wouldn’t call myself an animal lover in the same cone as the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals or PETA.
Recently, the animal rights group made a bold statement saying that people should avoid using animals as insults, arguing that it’s not only oppressive but “supremacist” and “speciesist” in nature.
The org even claimed that the practice “perpetuates the idea that animals are heartless and sly which in turn desensitizes the public and normalizes violence against animals,” according to a report by ANC.
Instead of saying that one is a snake, people should just use “jerk” (I’d prefer “sly” or “traitor” as accurate alternatives), coward for chicken, repulsive instead of pig.
The logic is that people should do away with figures of speech to save these creatures from harm.
I’m not sure about the science behind the claim that figures of speech or the use of animals as insults leads to the abuse of the same. As a writer, figures of speech are important. They allow the author some form of parallelism and personification of an idea, which in the end, serves the purpose of clarification or a real nasty literary punch when indulging in mockery.
Hence, I find PETA’s extremism distasteful, if not altogether silly.
Funny they should mention chicken in the list of creatures often used in insults. If they’re upset about the abuse and violence fowls are subjected to as a upshot of foul language (or “fowl language,” as one good pun goes), then perhaps they should file a case in the International Criminal Court against Jollibee, Max’s Fried Chicken, and MacDonald’s for crimes against fowlmanity.
I’m not sure I understand PETA correctly. Did the organization mean I cannot call some rogue, murderous, corrupt-to-the-bone official “You ranking foul deformity of a pig” or my cantankerous neighbor, “You barf-stuffed treacherous infinitesimal rat”?
What about calling a snooty, shark-toothed stooge with nothing to do but troll people on the internet at every chance he gets: “You vile, impertinent brainless cockroach with rotting croc belly for brains and a dead mite for a penis.”
Do they mean I must now refuse myself the largely carnal pleasure of calling some cowardly excuse for an old goat “a remorseless protégé of a ruffian with boil-infected rat skin for wit”?
I have no plans saving cockroaches from abuse any more than I want to see a world overrun by vermin — human and creature make no difference. So, would refusing to use these in insults do the world any good? Is that supremacist? Or what PETA calls speciesism?
I call that human survival.
I have killed poisonous snakes on sight, once punched a dog in the face which was salivating and chasing a kid. I once beat the shit out of a tomcat who managed to enter our premises and mangled two of the kittens I saved from the streets. That monster practically sawed my poor kitties in half with his fangs and claws. And to think this is me being a hopeless cat lover.
Don’t even ask me what I plan on doing to fiery-red fire ants or leeches when they try raiding my home. I didn’t read the Book of Torture, as a child of ten, for nothing.
Don’t get me wrong. As I’ve mentioned earlier in the piece, I love animals. I also appreciate the efforts made by PETA to safeguard wildlife. But if any animal thinks it can threaten me or my loved ones — whether by creaturely instinct or human agency — it will have to deal with my own version of creature savagery. I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s the King of Beasts.
Am I not, as the Darwinian school of thought proposed, an animal, too, with every right to creaturely instincts as well as human intelligence?
PETA’s statement is awkward in the least, laughable at best. Might as well criminalize the use of all figures of speech. As one friend said after I posted PETA’s statement on my Facebook feed, “It’s a stupid issue to raise. If we follow their logic, George Orwell’s Animal Farm would become a bad piece of literary work because of speciesism.”
After reading PETA’s statement, I actually feared for Moby Dick.
Shakespeare once wrote in Henry IV (Part I, Act 2, Scene 2): “Whoreson caterpillars, bacon-fed knaves!” But then you say, “That’s Shakespeare.”
You’d probably hurl the same retort when I quote Elizabeth Taylor: “Some of the best leading men have been dogs and horses.”
I particularly love Muhammad Ali’s retort after Joe Frazier said the former was using his blackness to get his way. “Joe Frazier is so ugly he should donate his face to the US Bureau of Wildlife.”
Well, Jesus Christ did call the religious leaders of his day, “You brood of vipers!”
How does one make sense of PETA’s call? Beats me. It’s as loud and intelligible as plankton having a fucking orgasm.
Oops, I did it again.
