Behind the Vegans

There once was a humble vegan who one day got noticed by Blog of Note, and suddenly, people were leaving comments left and right on her blog, vegans and non-vegans, most everyone with something nice to say (some in French which she wasn't able to translate and so gave her usual french response: Voulez-vous coucher avec moi--*waggling eyebrows suggestively*). Surprisingly, despite her readership having jumped from 280 to 2,100, there were only a few wienery anti-vegan comments (and a few comments that she couldn't quite make sense of at all), and most everyone was sweet and supportive. In fact, there were so many comments, she couldn't address all of them individually when she realized this on Monday morning, so while she was brimming with happiness and a little bit more faith in humanity, all she could say to everyone was "Thank you" in a blanketed, genero kind of way: Thank you to all you nice new people who stopped by and didn't get scared off by my talk of orange feces (or veganism). And thank you even more to all you awesome vegans who've been making blogging enjoyable for the past year and a half. You's are my peeps. *Pounding fist on heart, then leaning over the railings of the Titanic, while Leonardo holds onto my waist*

Anyways, once upon a time there was this humble vegan who got noticed by Blog of Note, and suddenly, everyone wanted to be with her. Lindsay Lohan was calling her up and offering to share her coke. Paris Hilton was all like, "Let's vote for the president next year together! And then in 2009 and 2010 as well!*" Julian Casablancas was writing a blog where she was #1 on the top of his harem list and where he detailed the sex dreams he was having regularly about her (instead of the other way around). Life was good.

Within just a couple months, everyone across the U.S. was going vegan, all because of her food-blog. People were like, If Lindy Loo does it, then it HAS to be cool. And so veganism was all the rage. It was even spilling over into the U.K. where all the Brits were talking Britishly about veganism, while driving their little cars on the wrong sides of the street and dressing like Mr. Bean.

Life was good, until suddenly the pressure got overwhelming and her occasional dalliances into the world of soy-freebasing became a little bit more regular. She'd show up at the clubs, high and half-dressed, melted Tofutti ice cream crusted up on her nostrils. She began yammering about how "Feminism was the new misogyny" and "Misogyny was the new feminism." Her boob fell out of her dress at the Vegan Grammys. She started posting recipes where the only ingredient was vidalia onions. She started shitting orange. And then green and then blue. Soon she was hooked on crystal meth and regularly scheduling colonoscopies for herself, just for the fun of it. She had named each of her nipples--Robert, Margaret, and Jebediah--and began mentioning them regularly in interviews. When it was brought to her attention that she only had two nipples, she spent three days on a crying binge, mourning the loss of the third. She began to adopt droves of stray kitties and dress them up with little top hats and canes. She would make them sit around and drink tea with her and eat crumpets, and she would talk to them in a British accent about Mr. Bean and driving on the opposite side of the road (because apparently these were her only remotely-British reference-points).

Her family staged an intervention. She cried and promised to get help, but the very next day she had adopted two more cats, sewn them little tuxes and named them Britly and Mr. Fofferson, III. Soon she'd gotten all her cats hooked on free-basing soy-ice-cream, and they spent days on end, just lying together in their own orange feces. She'd invented a large environmentally-savvy litterbox for humans that she had tried selling on ebay, but it had not gotten quite the reception she'd expected, and sales were meager at best. Spiraling into a deep depression because of her failure, she placed one in her bathroom and had been using it regularly, but even *that* she'd stopped making an effort with. Her bedroom and living room were littered with orange feces.

The last straw was when she woke up one morning, covered in filth, George W. lying in bed next to her, naked except for his pleather pasties and 12-inch heels. That was her wake-up call. She dragged herself into rehab that very morning.

Within three months, she was clean and had begun ministering at a new church that had begun to pop up across the country-side: The Church of Vegans. They were non-denominational, and non-religious, of course, but their following had grown by the millions within just a couple months.

Currently, she is touring the country, going from college to college to warn kids about the dangers of soy-freebasing. She has also adopted out 274 of her Cats in Tuxes and resides only with a very relieved Franny and Zooey. Things are back to normal, and despite all the madness, when we last spoke to her, she said she still looks back on that day she got noticed by Blog of Note with happiness and contentment.

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*Sadly, I would have no clue about any of these damn celebrities except that my fella has become a sudden avid reader of Perez Hilton. Let us all sing in unison: "Nerd!"