MyPheme – Tell It Like It Is

I know being a vegan is the politically correct thing to be right now.

It immediately identifies you as a compassionate, earthy, committed person who has the courage to live by their convictions. This is also true of an environmentalist, an animal rights activist, a hater of global warming, an expert in Ashtanga Yoga, a toter of reusable bags, an organic produce buyer, a hybrid driver, a recycler, a  grower of sustainable bamboo, a hemp wearer, and a shunner of all products made by tiny little kid hands in any foreign country that ends in “istan.” I’m okay with these types of people. Although I never really know if they’re doing what they say they are as it’s very difficult to check up on some of these beliefs. I can tell someone my purse is made of hemp and as long as it looks cheap, misshapen, and threadbare, they’ll never know the difference.  There is no “hemp” meter they can scan over the thing to check my veracity. I can carry a Yoga mat around and wear those tight, stretchy pants that scream out to everyone “Hey, my butt’s too big for these,” but unless someone is following me around 24/7 no one will ever know if I actually did the Salutation Seal that day.  But I draw the line at being the latest politically correct thing:  a vegan. I don’t want to be a vegan. It makes me feel like I’m a slave to all those judgmental, tree-hugging, socially aware, holier-than-thou, way-too-thin, veggie diehards when, in reality, all I want to do is stuff a good steak down my throat once in a while.

Here’s my reasoning:

Number Five:  Vegans have memorized too much stupid stuff and they’re pushy about sharing it. If you dare nibble on a rib in front of them they start spouting off detailed gory statistics and information about what went on in the slaughterhouse that maybe, possibly, could’ve killed the cow you’re now munching on. I don’t want to hear this stuff much less have to memorize it myself.  Vegans have big heads and they fill them up with way too much useless information. I already have too much worthless information floating around in my head. I’d have to forget something to fit the vegan junk in. What am I supposed to forget? The look on my date’s face when I walked down the stairs in my orange prom dress? It’s what keeps me from buying another orange dress.  I simply don’t have room for the vegan encyclopedia.

Number Four: Vegans have a lot of rules. You can’t eat anything with a face. You can’t eat anything that ever took a breath. You can’t wear leather, fur, or wool. You can’t eat an Oreo cookie because they’re made with pig fat (see above, number #5, too much information). Have you ever been with a vegan in a restaurant as they ask the waiter what’s in the steamed vegetable plate. Does it have casein? Is their gelatin in it?  What about duodenum substances?  Is it cooked in a refined oil? Is that oil mechanically pressed?  Does the oil have hexane in it? When you look at the oil in the bottle is it slightly see through, very see through, completely sheer, or somewhat muddled? Can you bring me the bottle? I already have enough rules in my life. For example, I can’t speed down the center divider even though it’s completely empty during rush hour.  That’s a rule. I have to clock in at my job at 9 am every morning.  That’s another rule.  One I find hard to accommodate when I can’t speed down the center divider to get there. Basically I have learned two important lessons about being around a vegan:  First, they can only eat and wear vinyl and second, always order your food before them, you’ll find the waiter’s much nicer.

Number Three:  Have you ever noticed how vegans seem to know where your meal came from but not their own?  That’s because they’ve been too busy studying up on the dangerous decibel levels at slaughterhouses and  the worrisome grass height at dairy farms to have any time to explore the history of their own food. Well, I have.  It’s from lovely gardens, free range farms, and organic ranches that employ migrant workers who work 16 hour days, sleep in a lean-to, and have no health insurance. Which means no flu shots, no immunizations, no antibiotics, so when that poor farm worker bends over to pick that organic bib lettuce you’re paying eight bucks for at Whole Foods Market he’s sneezing and hacking and spreading his germs for all the vegans to share.  Every vegan I know is always puzzled over why they have a cold. “I’m a vegan,” they say, “I only eat macrobiotic organic food. ” “That’s why,” I tell them, “eat some meat and you won’t be sick as a dog.” Vegans won’t use a product that’s been tested on animals but they don’t mind the people picking their produce being treated like animals. Hmmm.

Number  Two: I’m sick of being “politically correct” all the time. It’s exhausting and, let’s face it, it takes the fun out of life. We don’t drink and smoke anymore because it’s wrong and bad for you and gross.  We don’t yell the word “moron” out our car window  when someone makes a left turn in front of us anymore because that’s now considered a slap in the face to all those who are “mentally challenged.” Same goes for the word “imbecile” which, when I was a kid, was the perfect description for Alan Fillerman, a 10-year old who refused to duck in dodgeball because it made his thighs look big.  He was an imbecile. Now kids would have to call him “artsy.” We don’t hold the door open for a woman anymore because when we women burned our bras in demand of equal rights, we somehow burned the notion into everyone’s brain that simple everyday courtesies were offensive to us. Our kids don’t play “Cops and Robbers” anymore, they play “Detectives and the Poor Underprivileged Kids From a Bad Neighborhood Who Just Need a Little Understanding, Some Love, and Maybe An Internship in the Movie Business so They Could Break Free From Their Bad Environment.”

Number One:  I’m pretty sure God eats meat. After all, God needs his stamina and eating a few leaves of lettuce and a rectangle of tofu isn’t going to give him the protein he needs to handle all the evil in this world. He eats meat. He has to.  Otherwise he’d be napping all the time.  

So this is why I’m not a vegan. Life has become too “P.C.” and I’m happy if eating a rasher of bacon blazes a trail making it less so.