what would jesus meat?

Just because you eat healthy and pay too much for your food doesn’t make you a better person, only poorer, and I’m not talking financially.
You’re telling my boss about all the times you’ve been in the butcher shop.
“There’s always something that doesn’t look fresh,” you say, “but your product is for the most part good, and I want to support that. That’s why I shop here.”
My boss is nodding considerately, but I know she’s focusing all her mental energy into not jumping over the counter and smacking you around for a few hours.
“Come over to this side of the counter and see what the meat looks like,” you continue.
“It’s not where you’re standing,” my boss states, “I can tell from here if the meat is bad.”
She goes on, explaining to you again how long she’s worked with food and all the legitimate reasons you shouldn’t be worried about what we are providing, but you don’t seem convinced. Instead, you seem to be trying to convince us of our ineptitude, or perhaps how much you know about organic grass fed beef.
My other boss says you just have some weird aggressive flirtation thing with Tia. She says this scene has developed from months of Tia ignoring your attention.
Is that it?
Everytime you come in you’re asking for Tia to butcher your meat. I don’t blame you. Tia’s hot. And as I’ve been told, people who yield knives get respect.
If Darwin could throw in his two cents, he might say it’s natural to be attracted by the provider of food. You’ll live longer if you hook up with someone who works with food. We get to bring some home for free!
If I could throw in my two cents, I might tell you to go to hell. But I won’t. You’re a “good customer.”
Now you’re saying, “I want to support your business, I want to see you all succeed, but it’s hard when I can’t trust in the quality of your food.”
You rant…for entirely way too long. Why won’t you leave? Oh yes, Tia’s still paying attention. That’s why you want her on the other side of the counter. You want to check out dat ass. Meat slapping. That’s all this is.
You leave unsatisfied in another failed attempt to get through to Tia. You don’t understand. All you want is good food, maybe someone to share it with. Meanwhile, I’m yelling behind you that you haven’t signed your receipt. You run back, embarrassed, but not publicly.
“Sorry,” you say, “I guess I got wrapped up in that whole thing.”
“No worries,” I say.
All meat gets wrapped up eventually.