The Animal Cruelty Rehab Centre

Many moons ago this blog told of the Vegan Laws and the Releases (, at a time when England thrived under a benign low carbon dictatorship.  Some thrived more than others, of course.  One who thrived most was Stumpy Regenkurt, senior advisor to minister of economic decline, Nat Eb.  No wonder: he was in league with meat-porn mogul, Derek Gross, who conceived of the meat worker rehab scheme.

The carpenters had barely finished widening the door of the swimming pool complex when it swung open to reveal Dame Daphne Bulge, newly appointed minister of health and rehabilitation.  She stood in the doorway, monumental of silhouette, and the morning sun flooded in, casting their wintry rays onto the water.  Acolytes and sycophants scurried around her, appearing through the steam like busy, fawning dwarfs attending to an elephant in tropical climes.

Stumpy Regenkurt hobbled towards her, and kissed her hand.  As the door closed, bringing with it a rush of air, she felt the damp of Stumpy’s saliva on her skin.

“Welcome, welcome, minister.  We are delighted you took the time to visit our new rehab centre.”  Stumpy and Gross had recently completed the Animal Cruelty Rehab Centre for former slaughter-men and factory farm workers.  “Let me take you on a little tour.  Mind your step, the floor can be very slippery and we don’t want you falling into the fem pool, do we.”  He eyed her full bosom.

Stumpy pressed a large red button on the wall and dog-whistled to the staff who had collected at the far side of the Olympic sized swimming pool.  The clanking of chains could be heard and the creaking of complex cogs.  Above, a gantry shunted into position above the pool.  Its wheels began to turn slowly and the chains tightened.  The staff ran into position around the pool, some armed.

“Here comes the Bones, one of the toughest,” announced Stumpy.  “Steve “the Bones” Jones, Welshman, 32.  Formerly of Smithills Foods in the valleys.  Left school at 14.  Spent 17 years in the slaughter house.”

Dame Daphne watched in awe as the corrugated iron wall at the far end of the pool slid apart like curtains and a cage emerged from the dark.  The Bones stood in the cage, gripping its bars, roaring with anger.  As the cage doors clanked open, four workers sprang up to connect chains to the Bones’ manacles.  Stumpy pressed another button on the controller and Bones was hoisted into the air and slowly swung over the pool.  He struggled, arms flailing – biceps still like haunches of the very meat he slaughtered – his body lurching and heaving like a trapped rhinoceros, black with tattoos; he snarled and panted.

Two more workers appeared, lugging a huge sack between them.

“Oestrogen crystal,” explained Stumpy.  “We make it in my factory in Wales.  They have a bath every day in this.  It fems them down nicely.”

There was an almighty kerplonk as the Bones was lowered hurriedly into the water.  The purple oestrogen crystals melted in the water and quickly their colour dispersed.  Then from the ceiling came a gentle hissing.  “Lavender spray,” said Stumpy.  “It calms them down. Right down.”

“Two weeks of this, minister,” he continued, “and they lose their anger.  Their muscles start softening and their man boobs start growing.  That’s when the therapy starts.  Until then, it’s cold turkey.  No more knives, no choppers, or electric shocks, no bolt guns.  No meat.  Nothing violent.  Just the fem baths and the lavender and the old Buddhist mantras.”

Thus thousands of redundant workers in slaughter houses and factory farms, butchers, experimentalists and even some celebrity chefs were rehabilitated, while the English learnt to flavour lentils, and cabbage enjoyed a new lease of life.



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