Red Meat Cures Cancer (15 page)
“Stop making those stupid football analogies. Nobody wants to hear them. You know, I hope you and Meaney both rot in hell. I really do. And by the way, I’m voting for Puma!”
I pounded the telephone back into its cradle and just like that, Tailburger was doomed to endure a long legal battle. The odds of changing anybody’s mind about the inclusion of my employer in the SERMON lawsuit were not good, and the implications for me were worse. Lawsuits cost money, lots of money, and were absolute poison for earnings. They also caused bad publicity, which was murder for market share. I could see my pension sailing off into the sea toward Tahiti on a boat I had not boarded.
21
Threats
Within two weeks of its start, Tailburger’s involvement with Cal Perkins began to pay dividends. According to his Lust Ranch experts, among contests combining food and legalized prostitution, our Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes was drawing entries at a record pace. Sales were up at every store in the Tailburger chain, and with that came more money to spend on advertising.
With the SERMON boycott still in effect and the announcement of the class action lawsuit, all indicators should have been down, but they weren’t. This meant I could keep pushing the Torture campaign, claim credit for the company’s turnaround and watch our stock price and market share rise. It was the perfect plan. The Link, however, had other ideas about where credit was due.
“Did you see this month’s numbers, Thorne?”
“Yes, I did. Pretty impressive, huh? I knew the Torture campaign would just take a little while to kick in.”
“No offense, Thorne, but I really don’t think it’s the campaign that’s producing these results.”
Did he know something about the Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes? Suddenly, I was feeling very nervous.
“You don’t?”
“Hell, no. Let’s not kid each other. It’s the soft batch burgers we’ve been serving up. The undercooking on the inside. That’s what’s bringing them into the stores in droves.”
So relieved was I to hear his conclusion, I had no motive to contradict him.
“That’s probably playing a big part, Frank.”
“Damn right it is. Now we go after Muffet Meaney. And we go after her hard, Thorne. I’m talking Stonewall Jackson hard. I take it you’re out of the saddle.”
“Yeah. The
Larry King
appearance sort of ended things.”
“That’s too bad. I’ve asked Ned, Ted and Fred to arrange for some high-level surveillance work under Operation Tenderize. We’re going to tap her phones and put a tracer on her car. We need something we can nail her with. Something so embarrassing she’ll beg us to back off. I’d love to get some raunchy footage of her with Plot Thickens. We could sink both of them at the same time. You still think they’re doin’ it?”
“I think so,” I answered painfully.
The Link leaned back and lit a cigar, pulled from his desk drawer. His pursed his lips and inhaled before blowing a billowing cloud of smoke out in my general direction and reflecting on the quality of the tobacco.
“Smooth as a prom queen’s thighs, Thorne. Just not as dangerous. (Pause) Hey, how are things looking out at Crooked Creek? My name has to be coming up on the membership waiting list, eh?”
“I’ll have to check again, Frank. You know I’d love to get you in there,” I lied.
“You do that.”
Through the haze of the Link’s cigar smoke, I suddenly saw something clearly. Why hadn’t it occurred to me before? How could I have been so stupid? I was already in possession of the only thing necessary to destroy Muffet Meaney: the videotape of us having sex at my house. I simply forgot I had it.
The delicate balance of undercooked burgers, the Torture campaign and Cal, mysteriously causing our increased sales, wouldn’t last forever. To ensure myself of lasting growth in Tailburger market share, I needed to remove the SERMON lawsuit as a threat to the financial condition of the company. The videotape was the key. All of my incentives were aligned. I could assure myself of a rising market share and receipt of my beloved pension while exacting a bit of sweet revenge against a woman who had not only attacked me on national television, but had also slept with half the adult population. So why wasn’t I immediately offering up the tape to the Link? Easy. I didn’t trust him with my insurance policy. I needed to think this whole thing through first. After all, there was another person on that tape, and its contents could prove quite embarrassing to someone other than Ms. Meaney.
“You know what’s a fuckin’ shame, Thorne?”
“What, Frank?”
“You can’t even get a medium-rare hamburger in this country anymore. Goddamn government has everybody scared out of their goddamn minds about this goddamn E. coli shit.”
“It is a shame.”
“We’re showin ’em though, aren’t we? Our undercooked insides have people flocking to Tailburger like vultures to a corpse.”
“It is remarkable.”
“I remember working in my uncle’s butcher shop when I was six years old. We used to eat gobs of ground beef by the handful as an afternoon snack. Raw right out of the fridge. Never got sick once.”
“That’s amazing.”
“We did lose my brother from a mysterious digestive illness around the same time, but I’m certain it had nothing to do with the meat. Anyway, the point is that this country is going right the hell downhill because of too much regulatory interference. Christ, you can’t scratch your ass these days without a permit. Slowly but surely all the pleasures of life are being taken away. Can’t drink. Can’t smoke. Can’t pay women less than men. Can’t discriminate because of race or religion. Can’t carry a concealed weapon to the grocery store. I mean, really, what’s left worth living for?”
“Times have changed, Frank. Look at my life. I encourage Sophia to join the Young Republicans at Cornell. So what does she do? She moves out of her dorm room and into a VW bus with a guy named Tweeter. The world’s slipping away on us.”
“You’re right. The whole thing is just slipping away. Religion. That’s all that’s left. That’s why I’m embracing Sister Ancilla and building the gym for the convent. Those nuns are the only women you can trust.”
The Link became increasingly agitated as he spoke.
“The only women who won’t run around on you, won’t ring up huge credit card bills, won’t call you in the middle of the night, reverse the charges and then tell you they’re leaving you for the fencing coach at an all-girls junior college in Missouri. IT JUST ISN’T FAIR!”
Silence passed between us for a few seconds.
“You all right?”
“Oh yeah, I’m fine. Did I tell you that the Tailburger Health and Life Fitness Center is nearing completion?”
“No. That’s great.”
“Sister Ancilla wants me to speak at the ribbon cutting. I’d like you to be there.”
“I’ll be there. That’ll be a proud moment for you, Frank.”
“Maybe my proudest.”
The mild poignancy of the moment made the Link anxious to change the topic.
“Hey, have you seen the Stampede’s ‘Got Meat?’ ads?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Strong work by Hitch, don’t you think?”
“Very inventive. No question about it.”
“I think he’s up for a Clio award this year.”
“No kidding?”
I returned to my office, determined to make the most of my videotape with Muffet. A piece of evidence so potent had to be used at the proper time or it could backfire on me. I decided to call Muffet at SERMON and try to broker a deal. With both feet up on my desk, I bargained from a position of strength.
“What do you want, Sky?”
“Hello to you, too. Guess what I’m holding in my hands right now.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Your penis?”
“I’m afraid not, although you would’ve been right an hour ago. (Pause) No, I’ve got something that, believe it or not, is even more powerful.”
“Sky, peashooters are for children. When are you going to grow up?”
“Never, if I can help it. Muffet, have you ever dreamed of being a movie star?”
“Can’t say that I have. Look, what do you want? You’re wasting my time.”
“Do you remember our little rendezvous up in Rochester? The one we so boldly committed to celluloid?”
Silence could be heard on the other end of the line.
“Muffet, are you there?”
Still silence.
“You know, I can think of only one other instance where you’ve been unable to speak, and I think that’s on the tape.”
Muffet’s icy response finally came.
“Sky, if you ever release that tape, I promise I’ll make your life miserable.”
“Well, I think it’s a little premature to talk about marriage, but I’m flattered that you feel so strongly.”
“You go public with that video and you’ll look just as bad, if not worse, than me. And you can kiss your career good-bye. Nobody’ll touch you after that.”
“As long as I’ve got you, I think I can make it.”
Muffet didn’t seem to appreciate my sarcastic charms. “Muffet, all you need to do is pull Tailburger out of the SERMON suit. We’ll even settle for a small sum.”
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” she threatened before violently hanging up.
With my work done for the day, I drove home to get ready for love. For the first time in my life, a woman would be picking me up for a date. I didn’t really mind when Annette said she’d drive, although my antenna would be up for other signs of emasculation. When I suggested dinner, she said she had tickets to a show and told me to be ready at 7:00 P.M. Yes, ma’am.
Her choice of transportation, a black Volvo sedan, was just about what I expected: something sleek but solid, a bit practical and not too flashy—as much car as a public servant could get away with without being subjected to scorn.
“So where are we going?” I asked, getting into the passenger side.
“The Blue Cross Arena.”
Rochester’s Blue Cross Arena, formerly called the War Memorial, was the city’s closest facsimile to a major venue for concerts and sports, and did lure a Tom Petty or a Janet Jackson on occasion. It also saw its share of high school wrestling championships and BMX bike rallies.
“Great. Are you going to tell me who or what is playing there?”
“No. It’s a surprise,” Annette said playfully.
“I see. Well, at least give me a hint.”
“No.”
“C’mon. Give me something.”
“Okay,” she relented. “Here’s your hint.” She grinned. “We’re going to see something you’ve never seen before.”
“A monster truck rally?”
“No.”
“A cockfight?”
“No, Sky.”
“An all-lesbian circus?”
“Close.”
“I’m getting warm.”
“Just wait, all right? You’re out of guesses.”
The underground parking garage was full of families and a scattering of people dressed like greasers and bobby-soxers, many of whom recognized Annette from television and called out to her.
“Madame Mayor,” shouted one man, a dead ringer for Sha Na Na’s Bowser. “How ya doin’ tonight? Keep up the good work,” he encouraged her without waiting for a reply to his original question. As we encountered our fellow Rochestarians, mothers pointed Annette out to their daughters and everyone nodded and acknowledged her one way or another. Inside the arena, a makeshift marquee gave away my date’s surprise in large red letters.
NOW APPEARING: GREASE ON ICE
“Are you ready to rock and roll, Sky?” Annette coyly inquired.
Despite her position of enormous responsibility and authority, Annette had retained all of her femininity. She’d grown up in Chicago, gone to a local private school and spent most of her childhood playing the cello. After college she earned a fellowship to the prestigious Eastman School of Music, which brought her to Rochester. After two years of playing with the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra, she got involved with local politics and rode to power on her promise of downtown economic development. Today she was a player in the community but remained largely unimpressed with herself and her accomplishments. I couldn’t say the same about most people I met.
Although I was in good company, I wasn’t sure how I felt about this whole
Grease
thing. If my recollection served me, the story hit on some pretty tender boy-meets-girl themes, ones that I probably wasn’t ready to face. Sure enough, as the evening wore on, I felt the two of us morphing into Sandy and Danny. The good girl and the bad boy. The prim and proper schoolgirl and the untamed biker. Okay, so the analogy wasn’t dead-on, but when Sandy and Danny kissed under the boardwalk, I took Annette’s hand. When they broke it off at the end of the summer, I headed out to the nearest beverage bar and got us a couple of sixty-four-ounce Scuz Colas. By the time “You’re the One That I Want” kicked in and the ice chips on the rink were flying up, we were dancing wildly on a concrete aisle. Annette’s white blouse, now partially untucked from her knee-length skirt, gave me a glimpse at her more than ample breasts. I knew there was a reason why these ice shows were so popular.
I liked Annette from the first time we met, and by the end of our first date, I liked her even more. I had to be cautious, though. She was still a fantasy, a woman who would never ask me to spend a whole day at an outlet mall or an evening watching a movie on the Lifetime channel. And until proven otherwise, she was still someone who would love me in spite of my obvious peccadilloes, something only Jess had done up to this point in my life and something that I desperately missed.
The date ended with one good, long, warm kiss at the door. I didn’t ask her to come in because I knew the answer would be no. The mayor couldn’t afford to be seen coming out of a strange man’s home in the wee hours of the morning, particularly mine.
22
Politically Impotent
LOS ANGELES, YET AGAIN
Once the class action lawsuit was filed, the battle in the press began in earnest. Our PR guru, Zeb Nettles, now under tremendous pressure from the Link to produce positive spin for Tailburger, advised me that ABC, having seen the fireworks between me and Muffet Meaney on
Larry King Live,
hoped to have us face off again on
Real Time,
the late-night talk show with Bill Maher. With no recent school slayings or prominent white supremacists in the news, there was time apparently for a debate about beef.
This was a perfect opportunity for me. Finally, I’d have a chance to let Muffet publicly know what I thought of her and her lawsuit, and to let the hardworking customers of Tailburger know that our food was safe and good for them. Of course, I’d also have to conceal the fact we were purposefully undercooking our meat in order to increase sales.
Unfortunately, Maher, a stand-up comedian turned television host, wasn’t what you’d call a sympathetic ear. He met everyone with a certain distrust and every issue with cynicism, which made me nervous and meant I’d need to be on top of my game.
After arriving at the studio, a beautiful production assistant, Gabby, escorted me to a makeup chair and then the green room. Scheduled to appear with Morgan Fairchild and Arianna Huffington, I was surprised to find myself alone with Muffet. I opened a bottle of Evian and took a seat on the red velvet couch directly across from her. She pretended to study her day planner for a minute or two and then looked up at me.
“I see your plane didn’t crash.”
“I missed you, too.”
“I want that tape, Sky.”
“I’m sure you do, but you’ll just have to wait ’til Christmas. Have you been a good girl?”
“Asshole!”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
Although Muffet grew pissier by the moment, I was really starting to have fun now. I couldn’t wait to get out onstage, maybe chat up Ms. Fairchild, break a few hearts. Ten minutes before showtime, however, Gabby poked her headsetted face into the green room.
“Did you two hear about the change in guests?”
Muffet and I shook our heads in unison.
“Bill usually likes to get a few celebrities into the mix, but Morgan Fairchild and Arianna Huffington canceled so we’ve flown in replacements.”
My mind raced. Who would be in the chair next to me? Robert Klein? Sister Souljah? Roshumba? George Will?
“Sky, do you know Traylor Hitch?”
Before I could answer, over the transom came Hitch, the blinding glare from his belt buckle unmistakable.
“Sky, you old sum bitch. How the hell are ya?”
“Hitch, what a surprise.”
I tried to shake Hitch’s hand but he insisted on some kind of Texas bear hug.
“Hey, Sky, I see you’re not missin’ a meal. No sir.”
Hitch then noticed Muffet.
“Whoa Nellie. Did I just enter an igloo or is that my imagination?”
“Hitch, you know Muffet Meaney, of course.”
“Well, sure I do. How doo, little lady?”
Hitch extended a hand.
“No, thank you,” Muffet replied, recoiling from the offer.
“Suit yourself, missy,” Hitch responded, hardly missing a beat. “So, pardner, looks like we’re gonna be TV stars.”
“Looks that way.”
Hitch moved over to the refreshments and helped himself. A moment later, much to my chagrin, Bill Maher’s remaining mystery guest entered the green room. Dilda Wiggins, president of Citizens for Cleaner Colons, was a broom-toting activist who’d spent most of her career advocating a radical feminist agenda, including
The Vagina Monologues
and women’s soccer.
Prior to her stint at the Triple C, Dilda was at Justice for the Jailed, a well-known private agency, where she tried to tell anyone who’d listen that executing the insane was a bad idea. Most recently, before being kicked out for her ardent male castration stance, Dilda had been the executive director of W.A.R., the Womyn Are Right organization; a group committed to gender-neutral language, the Indigo Girls and the comedy stylings of Paula Poundstone.
Upon entering the room, each of the original inhabitants, including Hitch, managed a muffled hello. Even Muffet, who for purposes of the impending debate was Dilda’s ally, seemed frightened by this bald woman wearing a muumuu and mukluks. Fortunately, Gabby saved us all from ongoing discomfort by ushering us out of this hatespace and into the backstage area, where we waited for a few minutes while Maher did a short routine.
Soon we were introduced one at a time until I found myself under hot lights in a comfortable chair before a live studio audience. Our host started us off.
“Okay, there’s been a lot in the news lately about beef. Is it good for you? Is it dangerous? I think it’s a lot to do about very little.”
“Getting meat from cows is the equivalent of rape,” Dilda announced, her first words landing with a thud.
“Now c’mon, Dilda, isn’t that a bit extreme?” Maher asked.
“The woman’s detached, Mr. Maher. Detached, I tell ya,” Hitch said.
“Am I? We drug them, mate them forcibly and then slaughter them.”
“Hey, if you know a better way to get a girl in this country, by all means speak up,” Maher quipped.
“That is not funny, Bill. We rape these cows of their lives.”
“Muffet, what do you think of that argument?” Maher asked as he turned the attention of the audience her way.
“Well, it is a very strong statement and I cannot speak for all the members of SERMON, but my own opinion is that Dilda is essentially correct.”
“You can’t be serious,” I blurted out in disbelief. “We’re not raping cows. You’re missing the whole point. What about all the people we feed? Beef is a source of great nutritive value and, more importantly, joy. How about the great American cookout? You can’t hold a cookout without beef.”
“Dad’gum right,” Hitch added. “Who in the name of Sam Hill wants a turkey burger on Independence Day? Maybe some commie out in California, but not a red-blooded American.”
Muffet did not bow.
“Bill, I’m more concerned about the organophosphates.”
“Organophosphates?”
“Yes, the pesticides used to help grow corn which is then used for feeding livestock. Bill, have you heard of methyl parathion?”
“No, I haven’t. Is he the U.N. representative from Greece?”
“Not exactly, Bill. Commonly called PenncapM, this stuff has been shown to cause brain damage in children.”
Hitch adjusted his belt buckle with both hands and leaned up in his seat.
“Mr. Maher, may I say something? May I say something?”
“Sure, Hitch. Call me Bill.”
“Bill, she’s got to get the facts straight. First of all, it wasn’t brain damage, it was nervous system damage.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Well, I don’t know, but brain damage sounds a lot worse. Anyway, my point is that we haven’t used PenncapM for years, not since the EPA banned it.”
The debate was clearly not going our way, so I redirected it.
“Bill, we’ve got to get back to the real issue here, which is that American beef is a safe, nutritious, delicious food that should be a staple of every citizen’s diet.”
“That’s true, if they want to come down with mad cow disease,” Dilda piped up.
“Dilda, that’s nonsense! If you ask me, the only mad cow around here is you.”
“Temper, temper, Mr. Thorne. See Bill, that’s the attitude of the fast-food industry. Instead of discussing the issues, they just attack people personally.”
“Great,” I thought to myself. “Now Maher will want to talk about mad cow disease.”
“Let’s talk about mad cow disease for a minute because that’s been in the news lately, too. For three years the European Union banned British beef, and just recently the American Red Cross has said that anyone who has spent six months or more in England since 1980 may not give blood. Pretty scary stuff. Just what is this mad cow disease?”
“It’s a boil on an ant’s ass, Bill,” Hitch artfully explained.
“Besides AIDS, I’d say it’s the biggest public health problem facing the world as we start the new millennium,” Dilda countered.
“That’s just not true,” I said. “There hasn’t been one reported case of BSE in the United States.”
“BSE?”
Maher asked me the question, but Muffet rudely interrupted and answered.
“That’s Mr. Thorne’s, and the beef industry’s, preferred description of Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy.”
“My God, it sounds like something you’d get if you left your tampon in too long,” Maher joked.
“It’s nothing to laugh about, Bill, I assure you. Have you ever seen the way these cows stagger and drool as their brain tissue is destroyed?”
“I’ve seen the footage. It’s like St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago. Seriously, it looks awful.”
“It is awful, Bill, and I fear the American cattle supply is next.”
“Bill, the reason they’ve had problems in Britain is because of the way they feed their cattle. The animal feed that caused BSE was made from ground-up animal remains. We don’t do that here in the U.S.,” I informed him.
Maher nodded, but somehow the unappetizing image of ground-up animal remains hung in the air. Muffet, of course, had to go for my Achilles’ heel.
“Bill, it’s common knowledge that companies like Tailburger don’t cook their meat to the recommended government temperature, exposing children and the elderly to disease and possible death.”
Now I stood perilously close to the edge of moral turpitude. If Maher asked me about our cooking policies at Tailburger, I’d be forced to tell a direct lie on national television, something I didn’t want to do.
“So Sky, what
is
Tailburger’s policy on cooking its meat?”
In response to this question, I did what every self-hating, God-fearing and, quite frankly, desperate man would do. I went on the attack.
“Bill, the real question here is why can’t these women and their extremist, anti-American, militant, pro–radical feminist agenda groups peacefully coexist with the beef industry? We harbor no ill will toward them, yet they seem so agitated by every move we make.”
“Ladies. A response?”
Muffet took the lead.
“Bill, Sky Thorne, and others like him in the beef industry, represent a real threat to the children of America.”
“How would y’all know?” Hitch asked. “Last I checked, neither of you had any.”
I started assessing the public relations damage before the show had ended. I don’t know if it was me or the fact that Hitch wasn’t accustomed to the talk show format or what, but I felt like these women kicked our asses up and down the studio. “How many people actually watch this show?” I wondered.
Afterward, Hitch assured me that we’d gotten “our licks in,” and Muffet threatened to destroy me if I didn’t return the videotape of us having sex to her within a week. All in all, it was a pretty rough day. Dilda did trip on her muumuu on the way offstage, however, so it wasn’t a total loss.
