Since When Did Being A Pussy – I'm Sorry, 'Vegan,' Become OK?


A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I had the misfortune of living with a chick who considered herself a “vegan.” In addition to hating herself, because why the fuck else would you willingly restrict yourself from eating delicious slabs of meat, she enjoyed not flushing the toilet after taking a dump (much to the chagrin of the other roommate who had to share a bathroom with her) as well as informing me of all the health “benefits” that come from not eating meat at all hours of the day, regardless of whether it was appropriate or not. 

Alarm goes off at 8 a.m.? 

“Those animals are dying just for your enjoyment, you know.” 

Driving home from class and my phone rings?

“You don’t even miss meat once you stop eating it.”

Bitch that is a LIE. I go two weeks without eating bacon and I feel like my arteries are begging to get some fat injected straight to the aorta, and have you ever tried vegan bacon? It tastes like fried jerky dick. Have you ever tried fried jerky dick? Me neither, but I can’t imagine it tastes like anything other than that bullshit “meat” Sally kept trying to get me to eat.

And the whole problem with being a vegan, once we boil it all down, is that it rests on the logic that animals really care about being eaten. Dogs, cats – pets that have been domesticated, sure – I’m not putting Scruffy on the butcher block just because I ran out of deli slices today, and I believe some animals are sentient enough to give a fuck past the “fight or flight” instinct when it comes to death. But chickens? Turkeys? That salmon who was stupid enough to mistake a flashy lil’ plastic piece of shit from Walmart for food?

Nah – y’all deserve to get eaten.

There’s a reason humans are at the top of the food chain, and that reason is survival of the fittest; it’s why we don’t have to feel guilty about eating animals. Do you think a shark gives a fuck about eating fish? Do you think that cow you decided not to turn into hamburger is going to show up at your house with a fruit basket in thanks? If you answered “Yes” to either of those questions please stop reading now; you are clearly a vegan, and I get enough garbage emails already that I’m not interested in reading any lame-ass literature you’re hoping will change my mind on the matter.

Which, oddly enough, brings us back to my delusional roommate. One day I came home to find the fridge that the three of us shared (roommate #3 was more or less a ghost) had been completely emptied of anything that wasn’t vegan: sliced turkey, chicken breast, gummy bears…at least $100 worth of food, all gone. In its place was a single note:

1. That doesn’t even make any sense
2. Bitch it is ON.

Remember how I said Sally had a habit of not flushing? It would send our other roommate, Candace, up the fucking WALL. As in I’d get woken up at 7:00 a.m. by Candace screaming bloody murder that a grown-ass woman couldn’t handle taking 0.003 seconds out of her day to press a handle and flush her dookie. Good times, in other words.

“I swear to GOD if this happens ONE MORE TIME I am throwing out ALL your bullshit food and LIGHTING YOUR BED ON FIRE,” was Candace’s last threat before Sally actually managed to start behaving like a 20-year-old college student and not a toddler with irritable bowel syndrome.  So, like any normal, spiteful, pissed-off girl who doesn’t like having all her food thrown away, I set my alarm for 3:00 a.m. one morning, got up, tip =toed down the hall and took a stealth shit in their bathroom, didn’t flush, then went back to bed.

The next morning I wake up and hear Candace go into their bathroom. The house is dead quiet and I’m listening for anything: a scream, something slamming, maybe the sounds of lighter fluid being sprayed all over – but it’s silent.

And I suppose I should be happy that Candace didn’t light Sally’s bed on fire, because in the college world that’s a prank, but in real life that’s probably at least a misdemeanor. But in my book, being able to throw this note right back at her…

…was totally worth the ensuing nine months of passive aggressive comments, looks, and the one time I spent the entire day wearing a faux fur coat that I told her was made from clubbed baby seals. Yes, I know seals don’t have fur and yet after leaving it sitting out on the couch one night it mysteriously “disappeared.”

Maybe if she’d been more concerned with her studies and less with what I was eating, like most vegans, she wouldn’t have flunked out midway through sophomore year.

But hey, what do I know…

…I’m just an animal-hating meat lover who jizzes gravy when I finish. 

Suck on that dick, vegans.

 

Rebecca Martinson is known throughout the Internet for being very, very good at writing emails and very, very bad at using Twitter. You can reach her at becca.martie92@gmail.com, or if you say her name three times into a bathroom mirror she’ll appear and start trying to talk about Pokemon with you (though she prefers email.) 



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