For all you vegan, veg-head, meat-less munchers out there, allow me to free you from the shackles of sympathy. Eat your meat, because if you don’t . . . it might just eat you first.’

It was about five years ago that I decided to dismiss meat from my life entirely. While sitting in my high school health class my freshman year, I was exposed to PETA, an organization that would forever haunt the remaining years of my veggie-stocked life. Mind you, as compassionate a person as I am, I’ve never really considered the slaughtering of animals to be of my utmost priority. Burgers were slathered with ketchup in utter bliss, and chicken fingers were savored in the most decadent of BBQ sauces. Until, of course, PETA ruined it all.

Now don’t allow yourself to become confused between the savory Greek pita bread, and the fur coat trampling PETA organization ‘- the two are nothing alike. With the exception, perhaps, that both parties are most appealing to audiences when stuffed with loads of crap.

Nonetheless, PETA, also known as People for Ethical Treatment of Animals, is responsible for the reason I can no longer stomach a beef gyro. You see, PETA has conducted an array of investigations on the management of slaughterhouses throughout the United States, and I was lucky enough to learn about their studies. Given little time for mental preparation, my health class began showing clips of animals all mutilated in the process of mass meat distribution. Before that, my theory was, ‘If you don’t have to meet it, then why can’t you eat it?’ However, this video greatly challenged my ability to continue turning the other cheek. I realized that these helpless chickens and cows had families, careers and homes, all beyond our understanding. At that very moment, watching a baby lamb peering out from its three-feet-by-three-feet cage, I could no longer dollop a clump of mint jelly onto my lamb chop and swallow – I would be eating a face, a name, an identity.

And so, from that day forward, I was a vegetarian. I was a hippie, a peace distributor, an activist -‘- whatever your term of preference, that was my title. But for some reason, even though I knew deep down that I was doing a virtuous deed, I just couldn’t kick my cravings for meat. I needed some hearty protein, and pronto.

Suddenly, nearly every reference to meat made my mouth water, and I could feel my ability to maintain the herbivore lifestyle quickly dwindling.

‘You’re such a meat-head.’ My eyes twitched.

‘Damn, see that luscious butt right there? Grade A, top choice meat.’ My lips quivered.

‘Heroine problem? Please, I’m going cold turkey.’ A pool of drool gathered below my mouth.

‘ I was done-for. But as luck would have it, fate was on my side. The following summer, while visiting a local farm, I stood beside the turkey cages, admiring their radiant feathers, divine throat wattles and exquisite bone structure ‘- really, the shapes of their beaks are to die for. And as I stood beside the fence for several moments, dazing off into a world where I could freely roam with turkeys ‘- fork in hand ‘- I felt a sharp pang on my finger. I looked down, and found an angry-looking turkey smirking at me. He had bitten me!

I had given up a year of my life protecting poultry such as him, and how was I repaid? With a near amputation of my finger. And that was it. My moment of truth. If turkeys were not going to give me the respect and admiration that I deserved, then I sure as hell wasn’t going to cut them any breaks in return.

The following week, Thanksgiving arrived. I sat pensively at the kitchen table, eyeing the large turkey slathered in gravy. I wanted it. I contemplated for five or six minutes, wondering if this was just a moment of weakness, or if I was truly prepared to give up all that I stood for. I was.

I served myself several slices of the monstrous, oversized pigeon, raised my plate to the entire table and shouted, ‘This is for the turkey that bit me. You have shamed your entire kind, and now your ancestry shall suffer the consequence.’ Delicious.

And that was the day that I introduced poultry back into my diet. Because of that one turkey’s lack of consideration for my fragile fingers, the complete poultry kingdom has now been welcomed back to my dinner plate. But before you point a finger at me, accusing me of some sort of ethical lacking or shortsighted selfishness, let’s get real. Naming the poultry family ‘fowl’ was no coincidence.

So come on vegetarians, grab a fork and dig in! You might as well live a little, because these turkeys sure won’t.