Annoyatarians: A Real Conversation with A Real Meathead

Friend: Hey, Steve, thanks for inviting me to your dinner party tonight -- it’s gonna be awesome, I’m sooooo excited! By the way, just so you know -- I’m a vegetarian.
Me: Okay…. So what does that mean?
Friend: It means I don’t eat meat, you silly goose.
Me: I know what a vegetarian is you fucking idiot, I’m asking what it means in terms of dinner tonight because I was planning on cooking steaks. Steaks in a white wine, blood sauce -- I already bought the marinade.
Friend: I don’t eat steaks. Or blood sauce.
Me: Obviously. So what do I need to do here? Should I just lay out some carrots or put a little hay in a bowl for you or something? Because I don’t have a trough.
Friend: Don’t be silly. I don’t want you to go through too much trouble. Just pick something up for me while you’re at the supermarket like some Tofu or a pack of Boca Burgers, you know, something that costs extra money on top of what you’re already spending on everyone else. And then when you get home just set aside enough time to cook my meal as well as the one you’re already cooking for all the other people. That way you can cook two entirely separate meals instead of just one in order to accommodate my lifestyle that doesn’t affect you at all.
Me: Why don’t you just eat meat this one time? I promise I won’t tell anyone.
Friend: No.
Me: Why not? I’d be willing to sign something.
Friend: Because I don’t eat meat, Steve.
Me: FINE! I’ll just make chicken then.
Friend: I don’t eat that either.
Me: You don’t eat chicken? Yeah, right. Now you’re just making up stuff you don’t eat. I suppose you don’t eat chicken nuggets either?
Friend: No, nothing that was ever alive at one point.
Me: Vegetables were alive at one point.
Friend: Yeah, but they don’t have feelings.
Me: Oh, really? Don’t let Terri Schaivo or Christopher Reeves’ family hear you say that, you monster. What about eggs?
Friend: Yes, I eat eggs.
Me: Wait. You won’t eat a chicken but you’ll eat their babies? Are baby chickens considered to be vegetables? Like a legume or something?
Friend: No, they’re eggs. I eat dairy. I didn’t say I would – the egg isn’t developed into a chicken yet so…
Me: Right, so you believe in abortion and hate kids. And you’re a murderer.
Friend: No. I didn’t say th--
Me: Hey, how come you rarely come across vegetarians in countries that are starving like in Ethiopia, is that because they’re not ungrateful little pieces of crap and they eat whatever they can get their hands on?
Friend: I don’t know, maybe it’s cultural.
Me: That’s racist. Look, I don’t want to make two separate meals.
Friend: Then why don’t you just make the entire meal vegetarian for everyone? And that way you can kill two birds with one stone. Or rather, two asparaguses with one stone. That’s a vegetarian joke.
Me: Okay, first of all, that joke is retarded—it’s got me questioning whether I should have even invited you over at all or continue being friend with you, but look, I really don’t want to argue anymore. I’m done arguing. So you win, just tell me what you want me to make and I’ll just make it and let everyone know they have to suffer because of you. You’re a baby.
Friend: You’re the baby.
Me: No I’m not. I want steaks!
Friend: You can still make steak if you want, just make meatless steaks, I’ve had ‘em, they’re pretty good.
Me: What the hell are you talking about? Is that another shitty joke?
Friend: No, they make Tofu Steaks and Steak strips that taste just like steak except there’s no steak in them.
Me: Meatless steak?
Friend: Yes.
Me: Steak, with no meat.
Friend: Yep, and they’re made to look and taste just like real meat.
Me: Hold up! No, no, no, no, NO! Absolutely not! You do not get to flavor your tasteless tofu brick-matter with the essence of meat. It’s an insult to all the animals who had to actually go through the process of being murdered and having their heads chopped off so they could become delicious flavors in our mouths. I’m sorry, but if you love your vegetables so much, you have to let your food taste like them. You can’t have your Gluten-Free cake and eat it too.
Friend: AHHHH! OKAY, I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU MAKE, DO WHAT YOU WANT, IF I CAN’T EAT IT I WON’T, IF I CAN I WILL.
Me: No, now I’m serving plain celery to everyone. It’s decided. That’s what’s gonna be for dinner. Everyone is going to get one stalk of celery and they’ll have you to thank for it. I’ll turn the whole world against you.
Friend: Fine Steve, you do that.
Me: And I’m telling you right now just so you know, I may or may-not touch your celery with raw pieces of chicken bones without you knowing it. (May).
Friend: Okay, thanks for the heads up.
Me: I hate you with all of my heart --- which means you can’t eat me. Because I have a heart.
Friend: Why would I eat you? I’m a vegetarian.
Me: Then I’ll make a mold out of me, made from tofu and you can eat that. But it will taste exactly like me, which will not taste good.
Friend: Ok.
Me: What about shrimp? Do you eat shrimp?

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i heart airplanes

Every time I get on an airplane I always have the same fantasy – I think some hot girl’s come sit down right next to me -- we’ll end up talking about her family and eventually fucking in the bathroom…but it never happens. I always end up getting stuck next to the fat guy on the plane and we end up fucking in the bathroom.

I can’t stand sitting next to people on planes. The second I board, I always put my shit down on the middle seat to make it look like someone’s sitting there (as if the person who’s assigned to that seat is gonna get there and go, “Oh, dammit. Someone else is sitting in my seat! I guess I’ll just get off the plane and let this guy have the middle sit empty.”) I’m an idiot. Still. Why am I always stuck next to the worst people?

SIT STILL MAN. PLEASE. Fuckin Chinese guy sitting next to me once on an overnight flight from LA to Boston wouldn’t stop moving. He's got a magazine draped over his head which keeps sliding off his face and landing on my leg every five seconds. Dude, it doesn’t work! I wanted to grab it from him and whack him over the head. Instead I just exhaled loudly many times. I showed him.

KIDS SHOULD BE IN THE CARGO WITH THE ANIMALS. I once got this little fuckin weasel behind me that wouldn't stop kicking my chair the second I sat down. WHY ISN’T THE MOTHER DOING SOMETHING ABOUT THIS? I try to turn around as if I'm trying to figure out what's wrong with my seat so the mother can see but she’s NAPPING. So instead I turn back around and wait patiently for the moment the plane hits cruising altitude so I can slam my seat back to try and SMASH him in the face hard hoping to knock him out. But in the end, his face isn't there and I miss. And now my seat is that much closer to his dainty little legs so he can kick me harder with more leverage.

After doing my sighing routine, I try shaking my head in an exaggerated way, hoping his mom will catch my drift and stop pretending to ignore me. She doesn't. I finally say something. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you but your son keeps kicking my chair – you’ve got a little Van Damme back there!” To which she offers, “Oh, I'm sorry - I had no idea." Bullshit. The kid’s doing the fucking river dance.

It stops for a minute and then starts all over again. So I wait for his mom to fall back asleep and then I peak through the crack of my seat and get his attention. (Whispered) “Hey, faggot. Are you fucking retarded? Are you? No, you're not. Right so unless you want me to get behind your chair and kick you in the back and kill your mom, cut the shit.

That doesn’t work because he's not old enough to speak and now the lady next to me is looking at me like I’m a psychopath. Fuck you lady. You sit here. Guess what, I'm farting now. I was gonna try to hold it in. But fuck it. Me and you can just sit in my farts for the rest of the flight while I pretend I can't smell them. If somebody looks over here - I'm blaming it on you. I'm like a fuckin pig on the plane. I'd don't give a shit. I just blow ass -- you can't hear 'em -- so fuck it. If it gets really bad I'll pop my head up like a prairie dog and be like 'what the fuck is going on?' (my butt's going on. and on.)

I get anxious when I board a plane. I always try to get to my seat before anybody else in my row so I can get my arm on that goddamm arm rest before the other guy. Otherwise you’re screwed. And you gotta get as many pillows as you can so you can build a fortress around you.

What the fuck are those pillows? That's like something I'd put in my hamster's cage - rest your little head on this, Hammy. Those aren’t human pillows. And I’m still trying to figure out what the pillow covers are made of – I know I’ve seen that material somewhere else – oh, yeah -- it’s the same stuff they use to make piss mats for dogs. What’d you say? Bring your own pillow? Fuck you. I shouldn’t have to. I once was stupid enough to buy one of those u-neck pillows – those don’t work. First of all, I looked like an asshole carrying it. And I couldn’t figure out which way it goes for it to be comfortable. I ended up putting it on my head like it was a pair of headphones. “Shh. I can’t hear the movie…”

In order to board the plane before everyone else I usually just pretend I’m handicapped. This works pretty flawlessly - the only downside is that sometimes you have to keep up the lie for a long time. I once skipped Christmas security lines by telling them I was a cripple. You gotta say “cripple” – that’s when they know you’re not fucking around. But once I started limping up to security, I quickly realized that I couldn't stop - I had to keep up the act - they were watching. So I limped to the gate. And then all the people who were on my flight saw me limp passed them through security so I had to limp onto the plane and off it when it landed, and then through the baggage claim and out to the cab. And just to be safe, I’m still limping.

It’s funny when you tell people you’re handicapped because they immediately either grow accommodating/patronizing or extremely skeptical. “This guy isn’t handicapped.” You gotta be on you’re A-game. That’s not something you can fuck around with. All I’m gonna say is remember which leg you were limping on, dude. Remember which leg.

Here's a good rule of conduct: don’t ever ask somebody with a better seat than yours to switch with you. Somebody once had the balls to ask me if I would mind switching with them from an AISLE seat in an EXIT row to the LAST MIDDLE seat on a plane flying from Israel to LA for fourteen hours. SURE. No problem. Are you out of your fucking mind? Get a fuckin grip. I'll just take the middle seat because I’m a nice guy. “What’s that? She’s pregnant? Yeah right, I’ve used that one before. Nice try. We'll see if she's pregnant when we get to baggage claim.

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