Dog eat Dog


Stories abound when people have time on their hands. I was waiting for my lunch when I happened to listen in on a couple discussing the merits of different foods when the talk turned to humans. Let me say that I have never had the urge to dine on my fellow man, but still the thought is an intriguing one. I listened a little more closely.


Mr. A described in great detail how one would cook a person. Basting slowly was his preferred method. Mr. B thought BBQ might turn into a tasty morsel. And this had me thinking. How would you go about procuring a side of Stephen or a leg of Lenny, not to mention a plump breast.


I had heard of an aeroplane crash where the occupants were forced to eat those in the cheaper seats. Thoughts and stories like this get the mind racing and mine is no exception. What would I do in those trying conditions; starving, waiting for rescue looking at a nice bit of crackling from 48B. Would I or wouldn’t I? It’s a moral dilemma considering the price you pay for a ticket and unless you fly with the more established airlines, sandwiches and beverages are entirely at your wallets discretion. Then the issue of what would the other passengers think. In this age of political correctness their might be all sorts of implications with religions preferences and holidays like Ramadan and Lent. And one must not forget good manners. Once the short straws were pulled then it might come down to something like


“After you.”


“No really, you first.”


“No honestly, I insist.”Table etiquette aside what does one actually say at the roasting of one’s companions.


“No fat – I’m on a diet.”


“Only the lean meant please.”


“Anyone for a bone?”  You can see the thing is fraught with social faux pas. I could imagine the headlines. A number of one legged passengers were rescued from the mountain top. One victim was heard to say,


“It was all very democratic.”


But I’m not sure if I would give up my spleen or spare rib for the good of the group, although I figure by the law of averages some passengers might donate half their brain and no-one would notice. What excuses you conjure up to justify tucking into the aisle seat’s shish-kebabs might last a lifetime or at least until the book deal comes through.


“Honestly, I thought it was boot leather.”


“I was sure he’d just stepped out to the bathroom.” And “It’s hell out there,” which could cover a multitude of dishes from stew to stir fry.


Mr A concluded that rabbit was his preferred dish. Mr. B stating he preferred a tasty bit of offal. Myself? Well I can’t pass up pork which by all accounts tastes remarkably like... well you know what I mean.