By Lord Clovis Bullingdon –Culture and Etiquette Editor
Ignoring the detail that Vegans are uncommonly annoying, most gentlemen of our acquaintance feel they are harmless and if pressed allow them a sympathetic tip of the Homburg. After all, most lead solitary lives in gloomy, humid spaces reeking of kale flatulence and cat piss; and no doubt live in mortal fear of getting a wad of tofu stuck in their throat and end up suffocating on the street because people avoid mimes.
Unfortunately, seasonal change and certain moon phases exacerbate the hair-trigger mental state of a significant minority, and all too often they repay our Christian forbearance by running amok in public chanting jejune slogans like Meat Is Murder or KFC Is Chicken Auschwitz, etcetera. Or worse, march up to a total stranger in a supermarket and hector him on benefits of eating a “health” food that looks to be the antithesis of edible.
If all this sounds a bit overdrawn, read on:
A living contradiction to the Vegans Are Thin myth, the peppy blond behemoth crowding the supermarket aisle exaggeratedly caught my eye and bounced over uninvited with a tray of what looked like tortilla chips stuck in Alpo. “These are all-natural, organically grown, grain free, seaweed tortillas infused with Gwyneth Paltrow endorsed “cud-fu” –that’s a high fiber tofu that cows eat so they can poop—and they are ‘fabuliciously’ flavored with an alternative condiment called Fabanaise: a vegan mayo made with chickpeas and recycled shirt cardboard.”
“No need for rudeness, sir. These chips are far better for you and the earth’s environment than that disgusting meat you have in your cart. If you saw how those poor animals were tortured and murdered you’d be ashamed to even think about eating them.”
Against all reason, I replied. “Have you ever asked yourself, or your mentor Gwyneth, what it must be like to be a fucking vegetable? What it’d be like to be planted somewhere not of your own choosing? Then covered in shit? Then spend your life in one fucking row trying to make conversation with your neighbors who are literally vegetables? Only then to be cut down by resentful immigrant stoop labor with a dull scythe? And finally, end up being ground into nonexistence on the molars of some grotesque NPR moderator like Brooke Gladstone or her husband who is dying to get the fuck out of there so he can eat a decent steak and then go out trawling for colon? Ever think what it’s like to be a vegetable, CHUBBY?
The mistake, of course, was the dangling two syllable epithet. No matter that my points were witty, devastating and irrefutable, CHUBBY was all that registered. And the result all too predictable: tears, the summoning of inevitably CHUBBIER manager, the kabuki theater at checkout under the secretly overjoyed but stony gazes of the cashier ape and housewife hippopotami –it all played out according to the script.
However, this is the life lesson I hope to impart: at no point did I attempt to engage, nor did I lose my composure. My natural charisma played a part in shaming the assembly of imbeciles, obviously, but also my adherence to the Code Of Duende
What I was completely not prepared for occurred almost immediately upon exiting the store. “YOU ABOUT TO LOSE THE MEAT BETWEEN YOUR LEGS FOR FAT SHAMING MY WIFE, ASSHOLE.” She was this enormous toadlike creature dressed like a lumberjack and about to plant her oversized clodhopper into my crotch. Fortunately, for the first time in my employ Snavely, my nearly useless servant happened to be at the right place at the right time and the woman caught him square in the chin as he was trying to dart away.
Hope he gets back in time to light the barbecue.