L3id LKbir, bitches

So last Saturday my family slaughtered a sheep in the hallway. Other than that it was a pretty normal day. Got some reading and watched a bit of T.V. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I initially felt a bit of pity for the animal, especially being that I was the one who led the thing from where it was being held across the street into our modest house. Since no one in the family was really qualified to slaughter the beast so my brother had to fetch a butcher to perform the task in a Halal manner. It being 3id and all, butchers were in high demand and thus the sheep remained in the hallway next to the dinner table, tied up and awaiting its fate for over two and a half hours. During these 150 minutes of unrestricted bleating, I lost all of my former pity had for the mofo.

As soon as the butcher arrived, trailed by two little boys who wanted to watch yet another one of these, our little dolly was lain on the floor and promptly had its throat slit. As the blood spewed out of its gaping neck and all over some recently washed dishes, the decapitated body continued to spasm uncontrollably for the next few minutes. It was at this point that I remembered the factoid elementary school kids used to love to retell, about how chickens live for X number of minutes after their heads have been cut off.

Dressed in nice clothes to celebrate the occasion, I wondered how difficult it would be to get sheep blood out of my light yellow tie without the aid of dry cleaners. Reasonably difficult I figured. Soon enough I was holding the carcass' left rear leg off to the side while my brother poked a hole in the other one and blew in to inflate the midsection like a really morbid balloon. It almost seemed like it was breathing except all sorts of unanticipated sections were inflating. Apparently, the insides of a sheep are not only well connected but also surprisingly airtight.

Without much delay, the bloodied mass was strung from the ceiling and promptly skinned while my mom cleaned the severed head. When the butcher opened the chest cavity, a whole host of body parts came spilling out. They were quickly removed and cleaned with almost ridiculous apathy. The stomach lining and some excess fat were hung out to dry on the clothesline in between a towel and some socks while intestines were ripped out much in the same manner as a magician pulling on a seemingly endless rope of handkerchiefs. The butcher had other places to be, it seemed, and so he was working at full speed.

Within a hour, the sheep had gone from interrupting my reading to upside down in the hallway with its organs in buckets, its head drained, and its skin in a fatty mass in the corner. Within another hour, I was munching on the thing's liver. Mmbruk L3id!