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This comment from Quant reminded me of a girl I used to date:
And it doesn’t matter how bad she wants to save the planet, it would better for my image of her if she flushes after doing number 1 instead of “letting it mellow.”
Too funny. The girl I dated would say the same exact thing to me.
Me: [getting up in the morning to pee and seeing yellow water in the bowl] Gross. Yo, babe, you forgot to flush.
Her: I didn’t forget. If it’s yellow let it mellow.
Her: It’s good for the environment.
Me: I didn’t know we were in a prolonged drought. Is toilet water in short supply?
Her: You shouldn’t waste water.
Me: My god the urine smells so bad it’s singeing my nose hairs.
Her: All right, give it a rest.
Me: What if I have to take a dump? Your urine water is gonna splash back up on my baby smooth ass cheeks. Is that supposed to turn me on?
Although the above conversation sounded fun and teasing, I never could see my ex the same way again after that traumatic morning I first saw her yellow pee water. Something triggered in the primitive sex part of my brain and she instantly lost 0.5 sexual market value points. The end was sealed by an unflushed toilet.
YelloMello Girl was also a 5-year vegetarian (shocker!). No meat or fish whatsoever. Her diet consisted of pasta, bread, beans, sprouts, quinoa, cereal, carrots and trail mix. For a vegetarian, I rarely saw her eat truly outstanding (and paleo-approved) vegetables like broccoli and kale. Although she had a nice figure from running and biking all the goddamned time, her un-made-up skin was sometimes blotchy. When the sun glinted off her cheeks, I could tell that her diet was going to result in premature wrinkling for her.
Dating a vegetarian girl is no fun. (This is primarily a female phenomenon. Heterosexual vegetarian men are so rare in the state of nature that few women have experience dealing with one.) A simple formula for those who need a demographic breakdown of vegetarians: Vegetarianism = single female SWPL.
One of the sublime pleasures in life is a medium rare filet mignon with a glass of pinot noir. Grazer girls rob you of enjoying this pleasure to the fullest. Sure, vegetarians will insist that they don’t judge you for your carnivorous barbarity, but you can easily observe her judging you in all the little mannerisms and passive-aggressive quirks she throws your way.
For some reason, grazers are highly offended by the smell of bacon. If you happen to cook bacon for yourself when she’s staying over, grazer girl will snark at you for “stinking up the place”. She will scrunch her face up with exaggerated disgust, and ask you to “please hurry up and eat that, it’s turning my stomach.” So much for nonjudgmentalism.
I have a theory that the reason grazers react so violently to bacon aroma is because it smells SO GOOD it might tempt them to betray the Gaianist religion for which they have sacrificed so many years in penitential devotion. Bacon is the gateway meat to apostasy.
Now that Western Christianity is a dead letter religion among the suckup SWPL set, something needs to replace the evolution-sized hole left in their heads from the excision of the traditional organized religions. That worshipful, in-group yearning is replaced by a new religion: the religion of “sustainable living.” Gaia is their God. Lettuce their Eucharist. Global warming their Nicene Creed. Canvas tote bags their cross. Marathons their forty days and forty nights in the desert. Recycling their tithe. Pet adoption agencies their soup kitchens and charity organizations. It’s a fucking joke, and it’s on them. They think they are above the religious impulse, when in fact they are as much a base animal as those plebes who earn their sneers; they’ve simply substituted a different flavor of the religious crack that gets them high.
Most vegetarian chicks aren’t going to blatantly try to convert you. They know better. And they also know, on a subconscious level, that you as a man would be less attractive if you joined her in pasture grazing. So they smirk and sneer and judge but they won’t ever really push their insipid lifestyle on you. Nevertheless, their lifestyle is an imposition on yours. Want to cook at home? If she’s cooking, you’re going to be crabby eating her twigs and leaves. If you’re cooking, prepare to brush up on vegetarian recipes. Home cooking is always a one-way street with grazers. Even the simple act of sharing platters at a restaurant becomes fraught with romance-killing difficulty. And don’t forget the hidden seething envy and affront that grazers feel as they have to watch you eat succulent meats in front of them.
And however tolerant of meat-eaters that grazers claim to be, their sanctimony can’t help but assert itself. After all, what’s the point of being a dedicated vegetarian if you can’t lord your moral rectitude over the unenlightened? It’s a human compulsion to grasp for status points by assuming a higher plane of moral reasoning. YelloMello girl, like most veggie chicks, would act unduly offended if I mistakenly ordered take-out stir fry that included chicken.
“You KNOW I don’t eat meat!”
“Just pick it out.”
“Why don’t you respect my wishes?”
The phony indignation is especially grating. It’s as if they want you to notice their hallowed commitment to their bean sprouts religion. Why suffer for an arbitrary religion if others can’t see and appreciate your suffering? After a point, it became something of a running gag to me. When she asked for a snack, I would hand her beef jerky, and say “Oops, thought it was a celery stalk.” Or I’d buy pigs’ feet and leave them in her fridge, telling her I ran out of room in my own fridge.
Ever watch the chicks at Trader Hoe’s browsing the veggie section with a basket full of plant foods? Look closely, and you can practically see the righteous self-satisfaction smeared like spackle across their faces. Behold her proudly line up her beans and hummus containers on the check-out stand, carefully arranging each product so that the entire line can bear witness to her revelation.
I despise her. Then I proudly line up my salmon, whole milk, broccoli, red peppers and almond butter and feel a glow of superiority as I watch the ghetto black mom behind me with her crate of juice boxes, chips and candy.
The id monster doesn’t play favorites.