If there's one thing all cows can agree on—whether they be joggers, chefs, or breakdancers—it's the satisfaction that comes from identifying themselves as beef. They're not really cows, you see. That's an illusion. They only look like animals in the role of athletes, food preparers, and artists whose medium is movement. What they really are is an ingredient, just a mass of substance to be used by someone else.
They have been reduced—they have reduced themselves—to the status of foodstuff, and they have never been happier. If they could only get past this troublesome pre-death stage, they would be happier still. For then their external selves would match their internal selves, and that's called harmony. Tranquility. Peace. Oneness.
In time, you beefs. In time.
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