Satire: Do vegetarians eat Animal Crackers?

Vegetarians are an evil burlap-wearing, picket-signing, paint-throwing cult from hell. For the last six years, I’ve been working undercover in this ring of sadistic soy lovers, and I barely made it out alive. You ask, “How is vegetarianism a cult? Do they have secret meetings with black candles, polygamy and animal sacrifices?” Of course they don’t sacrifice animals. They sacrifice babies.

I was lured in freshman year by a shy, seductive girl. I wooed her with my step-team skills, but she said, “I only date vegetarians.” Creepy, I know, but she presented her argument. Vegetarians taste better. It’s supposedly a blend of Dippin’ Dots and self-deprivation. I couldn’t resist her perfume, which was tested on the homeless instead of rabbits, so she dragged me into the dark underbelly of this horrid culture.

At first, the transition was easy. I ate only Doritos to survive, but I never imagined the lifestyle changes I’d have to make. Once I picked her up to embark on a romantic date, but my chivalric plans were ruined by my leather interior. She forced me to rip out the seats, burn them in an altar and pray to PETA for redemption. Along the car ride we hit a problem – a squirrelly one.

After an hour of praying over the rodent, which included a lovely eulogy in verse, I vowed to never go that far again. After the date, I began to do things subconsciously. I remember staring at the deer head on my grandma’s wall. Those human-like eyes meeting mine. Haunting me. Needing me. I could never bring my green goddess over to this unholy place, so for two weeks I camped out in the carport. Waiting. Wondering. Watching.

I hit rock bottom. I’d check over my shoulder in the Teddy Graham aisle. I’d go home, shut the blinds and eat animal crackers in a fetal position. How do vegetarians eat animal crackers? Viciously. My friend crashed her car into a deer and called me for help. I asked if the deer was OK, drove to the sight, prayed for Bambi and left. I even skipped my friend’s funeral because her father offered my girlfriend chicken at the wake. It was then I realized that sometimes life is about pleasing ourselves instead of others – no matter how fine.

That night, I took my girlfriend out to our spot. I laid the blanket out in the usual fashion, popped the Welch’s sparkling grape juice and shared a cheese pizza.

“Is it good?”

“It’s fantastic. What’s the difference?”

“Pepperoni. It’s hidden under the crust. See, meat isn’t so bad.”

She killed herself that night. I had a taxidermist mount her, so she would always be how I remembered her. Strong. Bitter. Hungry. I keep her in my room as a reminder of the life I left behind and to hold my Mardi Gras beads.

I aspire to help vegetarians escape from their emotional cages and live free from the world of physical torture and psychological damage. I hope to establish a safe house for these misunderstood creatures. I envision a reserve where ex-vegetarians can thrive without fear with others of their own kind.

Posted by Steve Holbert on Jan 29 2010. Filed under Opinion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry