Vegan Nazis

Angelenos pride themselves on their diversity. They lovingly embrace everyone and everything without judgment, so long as they approve of it. Luckily their activism lapses when they run out of Zoloft or as they recover from their fifth nose job.

So I never thought I'd be oppressed when I went out for dinner the other night.

I ate at a vegan restaurant. I knew things were amiss when a huge sign let me know that by eating there my stomach would be purified. My stomach didn't need purification - it needed food because I was fucking hungry. The sign next to it cheerily read: "Einstein was a vegetarian. Think about it!" Well, dip shit, Hitler was a vegetarian.

I ordered a tofurky burger with Ghandi sprouts, Fair Trade flax seeds and a bunch of other "conscious" ingredients that later blew out my colon. So much for purification.

After ordering, I washed my hands. The sink had one of those ridiculous water conservation faucets that require you to push and hold a knob - which utterly defeats the purpose of hand washing. I looked to dry my hands and a note affixed to the mirror informed me that the restaurant put a spiritual moratorium on paper towels so trees can smile.

Wanting to get the hell out of there, I ate quickly but not without overhearing other patrons drone on about how people who use hemp tote bags will inaugurate a new world order.

Once on the street, the delightful scent of sizzling animal flesh danced in my nostrils. I sprinted to the burger joint down the block and sat at a window seat to enjoy a Drippy Double Bacon Cheddar Chuck. The hempsters from the first restaurant walked by; and when one of them noticed me, he ran up to the window. His comrades followed. They shouted at me for being a soulless dick and asked whether I would want someone to throw my cat between two buns and eat it. I said I wouldn't mind at all because my cat is also a soulless dick.