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,