You’re staggering home from the pub one night, slightly the worse for wear. You make a wrong turning and end up stumbling across a lonely common near a military airforce base.
A bright-light comes from the sky and centres on you. You’re pulled up into an spaceship, whisked away to a foreign planet, and caged in an alien farm that specialises in foreign meats.
You know the end is coming, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re in the cage with other abductees (including Amelia Earhart and Elvis). A pair of giant frogs approach your pen; one with a large carving knife, and the other with a book entitled “To Serve Man”.
Now, think carefully because this is important: would it matter to you whether you were intended to be main course in a high-class gourmet restaurant, or as a McHumanBurger in a fast food joint?
There’s nothing you can do about being butchered and eaten. But would you prefer that your rump is delicately brazened, covered in Redcurrant Jus and garnished with parsley, or just covered in breadcrumbs and fried?
Now … what if the Martian Butchers didn’t just grab you, but also someone else in the pen? Say: your mate Dave, who talked you into going to the pub in the first place? And the two of you overhear Zigburglbeeb and Wowbagger decide that you would be the main course at the Presidential Banquet, but Wanker Dave is only fit to become an Intergalactic Happy Meal?
Would it make no difference at all? Too busy bleating on about not eating sentient creatures, or perhaps vowing to turn vegetarian? Or would you feel just a teensy bit smug about it? The thought that you may – at last – get your moment of fame, on Universal Master Chef; as twin-headed food critic Grek-Wallass-J’al-Torrodox waxes lyrical about your texture and seasoning.
This serious philosophical discussion comes to you courtesy of my employer, and a rather lacklustre portion of Chicken Wings from Domino’s.
I invite serious debate amongst my learned colleagues in the comments section below.