Congratulations Vegan Douchebag!

“This vegan chili is delicious!” you’ll shout, loud as you can, at no one in particular. The people around you will do their best to ignore you, staring at their plates, pretending that you’re not there.

“What’s most impressive is how they managed to get the texture just right for it!” you’ll shout a little bit louder, hoping that someone will notice how sensitive and intelligent you are and how dedicated to the cause of eating Vegan you’ve remained in the face of a modern society that more or less tolerates your lifestyle completely. The other patrons will continue to do their best to ignore you, audibly grinding their teeth as you continue talking.

“There’s really no reason to engage in the cruel practice of eating meat at all!” you’ll declare to no one in particular, adding hot sauce which uses gelatin as an emulsifying agent to your supposedly vegan dish. “What a wonderful world!”

As the other patrons of the restaurant quietly talk among themselves and try to figure out the best way to collectively murder you without being caught and tried for it the waiter who delivered your dish will emerge from the kitchen, fear in his eyes. He’ll hurry up to you and ask you in a hushed voice:

“How is your meal, sir?”

“DELICIOUS!” you’ll shout, looking around to all of the other patrons, daring one of them to make eye contact with you, a vegan, sacrosanct in your opinions.

“Good.” he’ll say, shifting his weight a little away from you. “Unfortunately, due to a mistake on my part, that dish actually has meat in it.”

You’ll pause for a moment, your fork hovering halfway between your mouth and the plate, staring at the food you’d once believed made you better than other people. Your jaw will hang in shock as you process this information. You are a vegan no more. Not even a vegetarian anymore. You simply are a person, a horrible, vile meat eating person.

Death would have been a more welcome fate.

“NOOOOOO!” you’ll cry, flipping your table over as you scream. “YOU FUCKERS!” You’ll leap to your feet and take a swing at your waiter, missing and spinning yourself around with the force your intended blow, toppling implausibly on top of the leg of the table you just overturned.

A healthier person, one who eats meat and doesn’t spend all of their time jerking off about how great it is to be a vegan, would be fine. But your body, weakened by constant douchery and a diet based on ideals rather than necessity, will allow the incredibly blunt table leg into your rib cage. It will permit the table leg to pierce your lungs, silencing you in an act of remarkable mercy, and making a nice big hole for all of your blood to slowly ooze out of your corpse, although you’ll be so weak from not eating meat that it will move like syrup, a thick disgusting thing pushed by a heart which has long since tired of its work.

As you lay face up, the table leg piercing your lung, you’ll reach out to the waiter, the first person today who will look you in the eyes. Grimacing you’ll mumble at him, “I am undone!”

And then you’ll die.

Congratulations Vegan Douchebag!