adventures of vegan produce guy
My nap only sleep schedule ROCKS, you guys. Especially when I chase my dinner with Norco the world’s most wonderful opiate and sleep from 9pm-2am. Woo! Move over Vicodin, there’s a new pain killer love in my life.
I write to you today, dear Internet to share a link with you. A link so painfully close to something I have been experiencing in my own life that I refuse to close it out of my Firefox tabs out of fear that I will never see it again. It is from McSweeney’s, and can be accessed in its entirety here. It is called Passive-Aggressive Vegan Grocery Cashier: A Day in the Life.
This is my absolute favorite part:
12:50 p.m. Customer comments on “Go Veg!” sticker, which is on my water bottle under counter. I give short discourse on Marxist view of man-vs.-animal struggle, especially as it pertains to bovine lactation exploitation. I “accidentally” spill his container of feta on floor. He informs me he will no longer shop here. I congratulate his grass-roots activism against the grocery industry.
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I only wish I had been funny enough to think of something like this first. I think if my personal vegan grocery store cashier guy (or produce guy, actually. VPG for short) were to keep a journal of his interactions with me, it might go something like this:
30 July
Hung out with Maria tonight. Had to hold back my tears as she destroyed the environment with the three cigarretes I watched her smoke on her stoop. Almost lost it when she told me what she had had to eat that day. Left some brochures for her in a copy of Lucky Magazine I saw in her room. Wish she would stop buying things. She showed me some things she bought at some big box store and I reminded her that capitalism creates products she doesn’t need and that by buying these items, she participates in the machine. She responded by punching me in the face. But, it reminds me: I must let her borrow my copy of No Logo.
Anyway, VPG and I have a relationship based on mild antagonism (for what I’m sure are obvious reasons), so he will for sure counter with some kind of joke about my meat-eating, US Weekly reading, lame sitcom watching ways. I predict that our several months long text message flirtation will end soon anyway, as he is moving on to Super Hippie Land (aka a co-operative grocery store rather than the giant corporate place he works at now) and will for sure find some chick named Rainbow Giver and they will live a wonderful, morally uncomplicated life of bike riding, raw food and composting. And that is okay.
I doubt Rainbow Giver will leave the lyrics to Buy You A Drank on his voicemail, though. Then again, most women don’t appreciate misogynistic, offensive rap lyrics as much as I do.
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