You Can’t Keep a Good Blogger Down!

That’s right, kids! “When Blogs Attack!” has returned, with more venom than ever!


If Being Vegan is Wrong, I Don’t Wanna Be Cooked, Part II

I attended club on Thursday, like the good social butterfly that I am. At some point during that evening, “R” stumbled through the door, with terrible news from the vegan front.

“Ze vegans, ze vegans! Ze have zeezed ze cafeteria!” uttered “R” in his French accent. He immediately fell into a chair. “Hand me ze wine!” he said. “For I am French, and if I do not get soused every ten mee-nuts, I run ze risk of becoming so-ber!”

After downing a bottle of cheap Merlot and a handful of croissants, “R” recounted the story. “Ze vegans,” or the vegans, had indeed taken the cafeteria. Now no one would be served meat. Clearly, the vegans were planning to starve out all the omnivores.

“Zees is outrageous!” shouted Le Croix, shaking his fist in the air. “Ze vegan scum vill vipe our faces in ze stink of rotten meat!”

“Clearly it is their plan,” I said. I was one of the few American within our cadre of rebels. I had come to the city to study cartooning at the university, but the professors heaped far too much praise on Pepe Le Pew, and I became disillusioned. Eventually, I, like many students, fell in with the anti-vegan resistance. If you look up at the ceiling, you can still see the hole through which I fell.

“But what can we do about it?” I asked.

Pierre, our leader, stood up, his red face revealing either rage, drunkenness, or a combination of the two. But he could hold the attention of a crowd with the best of them, especially when he started waving his pistol blindly.

“Ze vegans vant to destroy all ze meat, eh?” said Pierre. “Zen let us help zem destroy eet. And vat is ze best way to destroy meat? Ze fire!”

We knew what Pierre was driving at, and within an hour, a small team gathered at the cafeteria, torches and fire batons in hand. We had no intention of setting fire to the entire building, merely the kitchen. Soon the rear of the red-brick oblong was ablaze. All of us gathered in the streets could smell the cow, pig, and chicken meat starting to broil. We salivated in our shoes. Some of us began passing around the jerky, which would not contain us forever.

The vegans, however, could hold out for even less time. As with most vegans, even the smell of cooked meat made them nauseous. Soon windows were smashed open from inside. The front doors flung apart. The vegans escaped from the cafeteria, many of them immediately doubling over and retching, with painful groans boiling up from deep in their gullets. The resistance cheered.

“Viva le resistance!” we shouted in unison.

After the last of the vomit-stained vegans ran from the cafeteria, we stormed inside. We gorged ourselves on the meat from the kitchen, most of which was merely blackened cajun-style. It was a great night, not only for the resistance, but for art and intellectualism in general. As long as we breathed, men would be free to eat meat! Many of the writers gathered with us in the charred-out frame of what had been the cafeteria, recounting that fateful night, when young men became brave soldiers. They paused only to think up a French word for “vomit-faces.”


TOMORROW: Where did Phil X’s hatred of vegans originate?