I Fell Victim To Clem In A Video Game (Madden Glitches) And Now I Must Go Vegan, AKA Hate Existence
First off, a big thanks to Nate for having me and Clem on his brand new show Barstool Gamenight he worked oh so hard on to get launched. I only assume it was his program since he grabbed the mic and wouldn’t give it up for the entire show, even when asked politely to leave dozens of times. I can only blame myself for not putting him in a kennel for the night.
As far as the games themselves, I didn’t come to play and Clem sat on my nuts. Plain and simple. I mean, who knew Mark Ingram was allowed out of his virtual stable to run a 3.8 40 in that damn game? Not I, ladies and gentleman. Not I. But alas, I lost fair and square to Clem during the inaugural episode of Barstool Gamenight. And if there’s one thing I have going for me in this life (Spoiler Alert: It’s the only thing), it’s my word. And I vowed to go Vegan all this week from Monday 9am to Friday at 5pm.
My first impressions of going Vegan is it’s not THAT bad. Sure, ordering “Sofritas” at Chipotle may eventually make me jump over puddles like George Costanza, but it surprisingly exceeded my expectations. A solid 3.5/10, mostly for making Tofu seem edible. Tbh, going Vegan is more about swallowing pride than anything. Well, replace swallowing with gagging and pride with Dikembe Mutumbo’s diabolically dark dick, and that statement’s a bit more realistic. But overall, and I know I’m only halfway through and it’s doable…for 5 days. However, there are two major grievances I have with the Vegan way of life:
1) It’s making me into an entitled asshole, and not by choice like usual. Within a few hours I was that dickcheese who would direct casual, non-related conversations into my shitty Vegan existence. We could be talking about the Holocaust and I’d steer the talk ever so subliminally to how I’m eating like a fucking squirrel. Might as well pick up Crossfit, run a marathon, and enter a cult in Happy Valley to spontaneously give people more random facts they couldn’t give a rat’s dick over. Also, the diet means you gotta be That Guy when it comes to asking about Vegan options in public because, honestly, nobody knows what’s legal or not. Or, more realistically, nobody cares. Homer Simpson said it best: Just because I don’t care doesn’t mean I don’t understand. And if I were somebody being asked about what’s Vegan and what’s not I wouldn’t give a FUCK, much like the Dunkin’ Donuts lady this morning who ain’t got no time for that:
Craving a bacon, egg, and cheese but getting laughed out of DD by a lady resembling the female, illiterate version of Predator before eating dry bodega Cheerios w/ my hands isn’t the worst look. Wait, maybe it is.
And 2) It’s not necessarily healthy. Like, at ALL. Barstool logo gal Megan is a recovering Vegan who instantly said I could house all the Oreos in the world. Great. So I can replace meat with Type-2 Diabetes? What a trade off! Last night I was all prepared to dine like a Royal Rodent with salad, seeds, and nuts and ended up polishing off a cool 8 pounds of Chex-Mix. Yesterday’s lunch consisted of 4 bags of Lay’s Originals. Today it was peanuts. That’s it. 20 bags of airplane peanuts. Now I’m wise to anyone who claims their going Vegan for health reasons. Bullshits. Yeah, I could show effort and cook myself half decent Vegan dishes. But why? Out of pure laziness I’m eating myself to the grave faster than normal, a feat in which I was already traveling at Ludicrous Speed towards.
So, yeah, going Vegan sucks, but it’s still better than the alternative office diet of Adderall to desperately attempt to hold off 40. It’s not the end of the world to go PETA for the week. Well, at least it was when Embiid isn’t hurt, Ben Simmons wasn’t officially out for the season, and discovering Uncle Sam is waiting for me to come and sit on his fist this Tax Season. Looks like I picked the wrong week to go Vegan.
All my other 400+ vices are about to get abused. Somebody keep me far, far away from alcohol, casinos, and dive bar jukeboxes till this thing blows over. Just to be safe, someone get Bruce Springsteen himself a restraining order against me during this difficult time. I know not what I’ll do.
PS – A big thank you for this troll job of 30lbs of beef jerky delivered to my desk from a company from my hood of West Chester, PA that I’m not allowed to mention but rhymes with “Lighteous Melon”. And by thank you I mean fuck off (till Friday at 5pm when the meat sweats will hereby put me into a coma).