A Served Sermon

I hold a hamburger tightly in my two trembling powerful hands. My fingers puncture the bun, and then the lettuce and tomato, arriving at the center, the meat, the cow that was, the food that is, the energy that will be, boring into the cooked delicacy of Americana with the force heavy machinery of undeniable destruction.
My fingertips meet, and for a second, I pause, letting my fingers linger in complete rings like the onion rings I had cast aside onto the floor with a forceful and angry sweep a few minutes before the main event. I then follow through with my task, my finger bones crushing each other into dust as I collapse my fingers and thumbs into the meat, adding to its savory flavor, until my hands are naught but stumps disappearing into the growing monstrosity of edible sinewy beef, my muscles intermingling with the juices and creating spasms that bring out the taste.
I then bring it to my unhinged jaw and start to heave this mixture of flesh and carbohydrates into my gullet, allowing myself to consume the hamburger, the bun, all that remained, and then my stubs, my arms, my legs, my heart, a true McOuroboros, a Singularity King, Endy's, we are all one with the meat, and as we are meat we will meet ourselves in the afterlife,