“Down with meat! Meat is murder!”
I was standing in front of the Poultry Sciences building with a bunch of dirty, stinking vegans, dressed in a green fair-trade wool poncho and a tie-dye bandana. I hadn’t shaved or showered in days and my breath stank like garlic hummus.
Two of my fraternity brothers drove by on the house golf cart.
“Jesus! Is that Franz over there?” one of them asked.
“Leave him. There’s no saving him now…”
What happened to me?
A couple weeks earlier, I had thrown some stuff in a backpack and announced to my roommate that I was going undercover and wouldn’t be back for a while.
“Whatever, man. I don’t give a shit.”
With his blessing, I set off down the street and began one of the toughest assignments of my career: infiltrating the vegan fraternity. Why was I doing this? Like all stupid things in human history, it was for a girl. A really, really hot girl.
Her name was Deirdre Demeter Rosechild, and she was like Mother Earth’s smoking hot daughter. Brunette, natural tan, and sparkling blue eyes like a clear mountain stream. She had a tight, rock-solid waist with a rack like a couple of watermelons, ironically not the organic kind, but the type that they pump gallons of Monsanto into until they’re freakishly huge. Basically, she was the tits. But there was one problem: she had forsaken her rich parents’ private equity fortune to subsist off the land like a hobo.
She lived in the Clover House, an “alternative co-ed fraternity” that had taken over after Kappa Sig lost their charter. They repainted the once-venerable frat mansion lime green and put up raised garden beds on the lawn. I wanted to puke every time I passed the place, and not just because it was on my stumble path home from the bars.
But on this day I turned up at the front door, called myself “Panther Willis” (which will also be my porn name), and moved in across the hall from Deirdre. My initiation consisted of a really weird Native American ceremony where this dude with beads in his beard played reed flute as we danced around a fire. Deirdre stripped and painted my bare chest, smiling at me like a serene goddess. Soon, I was doing drum circles, eating celery, and talking about the evils of factory farming on the steps of the admin building. My hair grew wild and free, and I stopped wearing deodorant.
Deirdre and I spent more and more time together.
“So, every animal is a spirit that has taken its form to add to the energy of the universe.”
“I completely agree. How would you feel about adding to the energy of my universe? With your vagina?”
She was getting close, but didn’t totally trust me yet. One night, she led me down to the house kitchen and told me to close my eyes. When I opened them, there was a gross slab of some colorless smegma on the plate in front of me.
“It’s Burmese garbanzo tofu,” she said excitedly. “It’s 100% protein, 0% cruelty. This is going to change the world. When you can eat the entire thing, I can truly say you have embraced our cause.”
It looked like it came out of the sweaty buttcrack of a fat person, and tasted that way too. It was agony, but I finished it. Deirdre grabbed me and took me upstairs to show me what wild animals do to a floral-scented hemp mattress. Her hair was long and she was unshaven. She looked like one of those girls in the ’70s Playboys still hanging around your frathouse bathroom, and I learned why her self-given spirit name was “Unchained Stallion.”
I had come there to hit it and quit it, but Deirdre’s all natural, non-meat woman taco had cast a powerful spell over me. I was going to protests, eating veggie burgers, and throwing pig blood at farmers. I hadn’t been to a party in weeks, and only drank wine we fermented in a bath tub in the Clover House backyard. Finally, I was in front of the Poultry Sciences building, ready to raise a cruelty-free child with Deirdre named Glacier, and descend into veganism forever.
“Panther is going to change his major to renewable materials,” she said to a fellow protestor. “Aren’t you Panth?”
The paperwork was in my poncho pocket. I nodded weakly.
Suddenly, the house golf cart swerved up over the sidewalk and careened into the assembled protesters. Four of my brothers were hanging off the side as Miss New Booty by Bubba Sparxxx blasted over the on-board speakers.
“We’re bringing you home, Franz!” They tackled me and dragged me back to the cart, fighting off the shrieking vegans with golf clubs and flank steaks.
“Thanks guys,” I croaked. “I went… too deep.”
“It’s cool. She was pretty hot.”
They bore me back to the house like an extracted POW, where the pledges poured whiskey and chunks of barbecue down my mouth until I regained my strength. I won’t say that I would ever want to repeat the experience, but I can add Deirdre to my trophy room, and that alone makes it worth it.
Which is good, because that bean tofu will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life..
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