. . . vegetarianism is an eating disorder.
It's a better eating disorder than many others, because at least it doesn't make you fat, and in general it doesn't cause you to wither away and die. But it does make you pale, and flaky, and unbelievably tedious to be around.
Perhaps you'll enjoy this little gem:
Meat is not something to be eradicated, like cancer. Its total destruction is not a moral imperative for the human race. Nor is meat something with absolutely no visible function whose continued existence is a baffling mystery, like wasps or men's nipples or television chefs. Meat tastes good. It carries vitamins and minerals with a unique efficiency that is critical to the maintenance of a healthy life. And it gives pigs, quite literally, a reason to live.
If you will excuse me, I'm off to the kitchen. I feel the sudden urge to indulge my carnivorous ways.
On the vegetarian note, I have to report that this past weekend, I went to dinner with some friends -- some old, some new. One of the newer friends wasn't quite clear on my sense of humor at the time. We were at the table, and as the entrees began to arrive, I looked at my neighbor's plate of steak and said, deadpan, with a smidgen of outrage:
"So we're going to be eating dead animal tonight."
Our new buddy looked at me curiously, and you could tell he wasn't sure if I were joking or not.
"You're . . . not . . . ?" he asked diffidently. "Er . . . are you?"
I looked back at him with one of those "come on, are you kidding?" looks, and then I folded my hands piously and intoned loftily, "My dear, there is room for all God's creatures . . . " And here my other friends chimed in: "NEXT TO THE MASHED POTATOES!"
I think he laughed the hardest out of all the giggling table. We all had a lovely dinner chowing down on glorious dead animal together.
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