Oh, Skippy. I’m so sorry, mate!
When I was a little tyke, I often got stuck with my parents while they were out on their afternoon grocery shopping. If someone complements me on my photographic memory of our local supermarket, I can say that I owe it all to my years worth of aisle plundering. I remember back when a young Dandy spotted a rather dark reddish oddity near the butcher, neatly cut and tough looking pieces of lean meat.
Kangaroo meat, it was.
I remember shooting my parents the “Yo, is this fo’ shizzle?” look to which they absently responded with a casual “Well, yeah …” as if it were common practice. But to me, this was an act of barbarism that I hadn’t even heard about. And as time went on, I found out more and more about the consumption of…
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