You know, they say that it’s a myth that ostriches stick their heads in the sand in times of conflict.

It might not be true for the majestic ostrich, but I’ve certainly observed it first hand from people.

I’ve had the oh-so-distinct pleasure of sharing meals with people who, inexplicably, associate the word “vegan” with the word “terrorist.” Whenever you sit down to a meal with these people or, god forbid, actually get into a conversation with them about dietary choices, they’re immediately on the defensive. And sometimes in a pretty intense and nearly violent way. People think I make this shit up, but I can assure you that I’m not that creative.

A few years ago, I took my mother out to dinner for her birthday. Being that we were celebrating the anniversary of her life, we kowtowed to her wishes and, with a group of her nearest and dearest friends, decided to dine at that most holy of American chains; the Olive Garden.

(I’d like to call off the defamation lawyers right now and say that I have nothing personally against the Olive Garden, although you could do a little bit better with options for those of us who don’t believe you have to coat the world with a thick layer of melted cheese.)

So anyway, I was discussing my potential meal choices with my incredibly friendly and helpful waiter. The husband of one of my mother’s friends listened intently to this overtly polite and civilized exchange from across the table, watching with his piggy, hungry eyes for his moment to strike fear into the heart of what was clearly a plant-based mercenary sitting across from him. Once the server left, so did this dickcheese’s sense of personal decorum.

Clearly Diabetic Fatty Husband Of Friend: So, what? You got an allergy or something?

Meek and Innocent Vegan Minding Her Own Fucking Business: Uh, no. I don’t eat animal products.

CDFHOF: What? Why the hell not?

MAIVMHOFB: I just don’t like to, that’s all.

CDFHOF: Well that’s dumb. What the hell do you eat?

MAIVMHOFB: Anything that doesn’t have meat, dairy or eggs. Vegetables, fruit, grains, beans, nuts, seeds…

CDFHOF: Sounds gross. Next thing I know, you’re gonna be telling me I shouldn’t eat meat.

MAIVMHOFB: Not at all. Not eating animal based products is a personal choice, and we’re all free to make our own choices for ourselves.

CDFHOF: Well all I know is, if you start telling me that I shouldn’t eat what I want, we’re going to have a problem.

MAIVMHOFB: Excuse me?

CDFHOF: Just keep your nose outta my business, is all I’m saying.

Now, let the record reflect that CDFHOF instigated the conversation about my meal choice. I did not scoff at his lasagna. I did not chuckle self-righteously at the amount of cheese he added to the aforementioned lasagna. I didn’t even so much as suggest that his health could be drastically improved if he added a side salad to his cornucopia of meat and cheese! I had a civilized (and helpful!) discussion with my server about what menu items could easily be adapted to fit my specific dietary needs, and I was attacked. I’m not kidding. When CDFHOF told me we’d have a problem if I dared to suggest his life could be improved with fewer animal products, he pointed his butter knife at me. Let me repeat that, dear reader: he pointed his knife at me.

Now, whether or not he intended to make me his second course in order to prove a point, I cannot say with any sort of accuracy. What I can say is that, when confronted with the slightest hint that someone might be doing something differently than the way he conducts his life, he fucking flipped his shit. It was the whole package; raised voices, pointing of cutlery and threats of retribution.

I can say, with almost 100% certainty, that this reaction was fueled by fear. Because if I somehow managed to hypnotize him with my vegan superpowers (which have yet to arrive, I’m sorry to say), then he might have to think about his choices. And if he thought about his choices, and why he was making them, he might possibly, somehow, miraculously come to the conclusion that he was making his choices for the wrong reasons.



God forbid. Lemme find you a sand dune in which to bury your fat, diabetic head.