You know that old joke about recognizing a vegan?
Well, you can now add “Don’t worry. They’ll crash into your chicken truck” to the punchline.
See, vegans can’t just be happy with living their life as they see fit. They’re filled with supercilious smugness about their lifestyle. They can’t be just happy with eating nothing but grass, wearing hemp, eschewing any article of clothing, accessory, or bath product that’s ever touched an animal – or was even in the vicinity of one – smelling like rancid BO and patchouli, and feeling superior about it. They’re miserable, overbearing busybodies, who obviously figure if they’re going to be miserable and unhinged, the whole world must be forced to join them.
Enter Judith Moriah Armstrong.
The investigation began when a truck driver told police he was traveling west on Hwy. 72 when a red four-door car hit the side of his truck. The driver said he initiated his brakes only to have the suspect vehicle slam into his truck once more – spinning in front of the truck in the process.
The truck driver pulled over and called 911 as the red car fled. He only had a basic description of the driver, a woman with shoulder length red hair. Had that been all that Madison County deputies had to work with, she might not have been as easy to find. However they reported that there was debris from the crash left on the side of the road – including her license plate.
You know what happened next, right?
Crazy bitch was tracked down to her house, refused to leave unless police secured a warrant (OK, that’s fine), but spoke with officers through a window and admitted to hitting the truck. Because it was a chicken truck, and she was a vegan.
I know you’ll be shocked to know that alcohol was involved, although, she claims she took a few shots when she got home, after she intentionally hit another person’s vehicle – twice – and then fled the scene.
Consider the irony here. Vegans reject the commodity status of animals, and renounce the use of animal products… because kindness to our fellow living beings or some such shit.
And yet, deranged ginger here intentionally hit the truck more than once, putting both the live creature operating the vehicle and the living beings in the back of said vehicle in mortal peril.
Guess the actual lives and well being of actual live creatures don’t matter when psychotic vegans decide their ideology must be obeyed at all costs.
I wonder if they’ll cater to her dietary preferences in jail.
Times of Israel reports that Hamas’ explosives chief blew himself up a couple of days ago.
Hamas’s military wing, the Qassam Brigades, said in a statement posted to its official website that high-ranking field commander Muhammad Hemada Walid al-Quqa, 37, died Sunday morning. Other reports from Gaza said he was 44 years old.
According to the statement, Quqa was “preparing equipment” in the field when he was injured in an explosion.
According to Israel’s Channel 2 news, Quqa was the head of Hamas’s explosives unit and the Qassam Brigades said he had been involved in “manufacturing and assembling explosives,” among other activities.
I haven’t the slightest idea whether it’s true or not, but it’s a nice thought. Just thought you’d want some good news for your Tuesday morning.
No, I won’t be watching. No, I won’t be giving you a play-by-play. Frankly, it’s because I like my sanity – what little is left of it – and because tonight’s topic is national security, I’d also like to not be fighting the urge to put a fist through my TV for 90 minutes. As a matter of fact, there’s a ton of things I’d rather be doing than watching the debate, so here’s a partial list.
- Root canal. I love root canals.
- Playing with raw meat inside an alligator enclosure in Florida.
- Drinking antifreeze (don’t worry I was a college student once – I’m sure I’ve ingested worse stuff).
- Being ravaged by a herd of hungry yak.
- Being torn apart by Walking Dead zombies.
- Tumbling into a gorilla enclosure.
- Listening to a fat acceptance lecture by Trigglypuff.
- Electric shock therapy.
- Prostate exam. Yes, I know I don’t have one. I don’t care.
- Reading Damien Walter columns.
- Giving Michael Moore a sponge bath.
- Shaving my bikini line with a rusty weed wacker.
- Sniffing Arthur Cho’s bicycle seat.
- Having dinner with cannibalistic pygmies.
- Bathing in my dog’s slobber.
- Giving my cat a bath.
- Memorizing the list of gender pronouns now recognized in New York.
- Two words: Clorox douche.
- Picking the lint from Mama June’s belly button.
- Gargling Axe body spray.
- Having my ovaries removed with a pair of salad tongs. By a blind veterinarian.
- Discussing Kierkegaard with an ADHD toddler.
- Expressing Tucker’s anal glands.
- Expressing ANYONE’S anal glands.
- Trying on Kanye’s new clothing line (yeah, the one that makes you look like you’re a concentration camp survivor).
- Having a Twitter conversation with Anthony Weiner.
- Smelling dog farts.
- Smelling husband farts after a night of cheap beer.
- Napping in a snake pit.
- Working as Kim Kardashian’s gynecologist.
- Reading the Torah at a KKK gathering.
- Using a porta-john at a Nickelback concert.
- Eating my own vomit.
- Drinking a kale, ketchup, and urine smoothie (giving antifreeze a run for its money).
- Picking gum off the bottom of a chair in my old high school and chewing it.
- Listening to Roseanne Barr “sing” the national anthem.
- Making out with Michael Jackson’s desiccated carcass.
- Having a rabid ferret chew on my crotch.
- Snorting hot sauce.
- Three words: hot tar enema.
Get the message?
I must be sheltered or something, because I’ve never heard of this. Rob says he’s seen it before – a weird form of fetish where grown men want to live their lives as dogs. Leather clad dogs. This is apparently a thing. A British TV channel is doing a documentary on these freaks.
The programme also features the sad story of Tom, 32, a theatre technician from Tring, Hertforshire, who split up with his fiancee Rachel because of his yearning to dress up as a Dalmatian.
He says: ‘You disappear and start chasing puppy toys. You go so deep into the head space, you crave it and want it. It’s just magic.’
It’s not about sex, they claim, but a number of them are dressed like BDSM fiends. Leather, chains, masks…
And this… uh… “hobby,” is expensive. This douche Tom – pictured as a dalmatian to the left – not only lost his girlfriend over this (‘I didn’t understand it. I didn’t want to understand it,’ says Rachel, who remains friends with Tom.), but he also spends loads of money on his doggie alter ego.
Look, I’m not one to judge anyone’s fetishes. Whatever you do, more power to you, as long as you don’t infringe on the rights of others while you do it.
I just wonder if these freaks are going to demand their own bathrooms soon. Or hydrants. Or whether they’re going to need someone to pick up their… uh… leavings when they go out.
I have to wonder if this is a weird attention ploy, or some kind of odd mental disorder. I’m not really sure what to think about it. I suppose it’s kind of harmless, unless you count the loved ones who have to put up with this, like Rachel here.
Personally, I’m not into interspecies erotica, so I prefer my mates in human form, thanks.