When will the girlie-girl west going to wake up and smell coffee. In between counseling jobs, way back in my infancy, I worked in a slaughterhouse. Every morning a group of us would sit and wait to start our day. We knew it was time to spring into action when decapitated sheep heads started tumbling down a traugh. This indicated that the line had started and the killing had begun. I stacked pelts. The drive home was about a half hour. By my arrival home the blood soaked pants I was wearing had coagulated, and were stiff enough to stand on their own, empty.
Of all the horrors you find in a packing plant, the worst is the blood that gushed from a pipe in back of the plant. The blood had been heated and on cold days steamed as it hit the air. It was the smell. The smell of blood, heated almost to boiling that nearly jerked my lunch out of my belly. But no matter where I was in the huge plant I could not escape that smell. The same smell drifting across the Atlantic right now.
I guess it’s time to get up and smell the blood.