This bloated figurehead, this depraved emblem of the anti-animal worldview, has a magic talisman: his obscene girth, his grossly distended form. It is a source of endless pride. And why?
"Why?" you ask?
To you, we say, "Why not!"
It's as though he has accepted the whole institution of meat-eating—swallowed the entire enterprise, you might say—and transformed it into flesh. He has appropriated the engine of his own destruction! He lives by becoming one with the forces arrayed against him! His pride is the pride of the survivor. But no—he doesn't merely survive. He transcends! He dominates by being dominated! He contains a multitude of enemies. He preserves and memorializes the refutation of himself. He has become a temple to his own worthlessness, his body its wheezing altar.
And this is the story told by his cartoonishly untenable physical state. It is a tale of supreme satisfaction.
Every day, each steppingstone on the pathway to his doom, is a kind of victory. A very strange and very, very meaningless victory.