The “Big 4” meat suppliers—Tyson, JBS, Cargill, and National Beef. Seriously? These guys sound less like respectable companies and more like the four horsemen of the financial apocalypse, riding into town with saddlebags full of price hikes and a mandate to turn steak into a luxury item. Picture it: a shadowy backroom, the air thick with cigar smoke, where these meat barons sit around a mahogany table, plotting to make sure you can’t enjoy a hot dog without taking out a second mortgage. It’s like a supervillain meeting straight out of a comic book, but instead of battling superheroes, they’re fighting to keep your wallet emptier than a vegan buffet at a Texas BBQ.
And Tyson, oh Tyson, they’ve got chickens trapped in a scheme so convoluted it makes Wall Street look like kindergarten. “Oh, you want a whole chicken? That’ll be $50! Haha, kidding—it’s actually $100, but because we’re feeling generous, we’ll throw in some gristle. Free of charge!” It’s like they’re holding a poultry hostage negotiation, and you’re the poor fool trying to get your dinner back without losing your shirt. Tyson’s out here pricing drumsticks like they’re selling Fabergé eggs. You think you’re buying dinner, but nope, you just invested in the world’s most overpriced wings, and you didn’t even get a dip.
Then there’s JBS, lounging back in a leather armchair, probably wearing a monocle and petting a plastic cow like a cartoon villain. “Why sell beef when I can sell the illusion of beef?” It’s like they’re sitting on a pile of filet mignon laughing maniacally, “Oh, you thought you could afford steak? That’s adorable.” They’re acting like they’ve cornered the market on protein, and the rest of us are just peasants begging for a chance at a hamburger that doesn’t require a payday loan.
Cargill? They’re running their operation like some kind of cult, but instead of chanting about the end times, they’re all about overcharging you for ground chuck. “Join us, and learn the sacred knowledge of gouging the masses for every last cent. Embrace the way of the overinflated brisket!” It’s like they’ve turned a simple trip to the grocery store into a spiritual journey where you leave with enlightenment—oh, and an empty wallet. And they’ve got you convinced that without their $30-a-pound beef, you’re gonna be left gnawing on tofu and questioning your life choices.
National Beef is the schoolyard bully who stole your lunch money and then had the audacity to sell you back your own sandwich—at a premium. “Oh, you brought a ham sandwich? Cute. I brought a whole cow! And for you, $49.99 a slice—what a steal!” They’re out here pricing meat like it’s rare artwork, as if every slice of roast beef is a Monet. And you’re just standing there, holding your $6 package of bologna, wondering if you should get it insured.
And just when you think it can’t get more ridiculous, McDonald’s bursts onto the scene like a buddy cop movie nobody asked for. Teaming up with the FTC, they’re out here like two mismatched detectives in an underfunded TV pilot: “We’re taking down the meat mafia, one overpriced patty at a time!” You can almost hear the cheesy action music playing in the background as they try to raid the meat cartel’s hideout. “It’s a meat monopoly, and they’ve been squeezing our wallets dry!” Yeah, sure, Ronald, you’re really gonna take down the guys who decide if a ribeye costs the same as a used car. Good luck with that, buddy.
And if by some miracle these meat masterminds actually get busted, maybe we’ll see prices drop—maybe. “Hey, congrats! Your Big Mac is now $2 cheaper! Only slightly more expensive than that ambulance ride for your clogged arteries!” It’s like celebrating because your wallet got mugged, but at least the mugger gave you cab fare home. And here we are, just trying to buy a burger without needing to talk to a financial advisor first. Walking into a bank like, “Uh, yes, I’d like to apply for a loan… for this Whopper.”
This is where we’re at, folks: a meat cartel that has us by the throat—squeezing us so hard our wallets are gasping for air like a fish on dry land. They’re raking in cash like it’s a casino and they own the only deck of cards, while the rest of us are left wondering if we should just grow kale in the backyard to avoid filing for Chapter 11. Because at this point, the only thing getting grilled isn’t dinner—it’s our bank accounts, sizzling over the flames of corporate greed until there’s nothing left but ashes and regret!
