You’re a Doofus: On Being a Flexitarian

As I sat in the sun, nomming on a delicious bit of smoked meat, I realized that I will almost certainly never be a vegetarian. I should be, though. You should too. All concerns about animal cruelty aside—and God knows there’s plenty of concern there—a vegetarian diet is more easily sustainable and tends to have a lower carbon footprint per calorie than a meat-based diet. This makes sense. Instead of growing acres of corn to feed a pig so that it can be turned into a handful of meals, why not just eat all that damn corn?

Because bacon is fucking delicious, that’s why.

So yes, I should—and maybe will—try to reduce my meat intake. Not only because it’s better for the environment but because it’s pretty objectively sad to eat an animal. (Do people with pet pigs eat bacon? Because, if they do, that seems incredibly messed up. But if they don’t…well, more bacon for me, I guess.) But even if I do manage to reduce my meat consumption, I’m certainly not going to call myself a flexitarian because, my God, is this a pointless way to categorize a portion of the populace:

One whose normally meatless diet occasionally includes meat or fish.

If the definition of your dietary identity states that you don’t eat meat but also that you do eat meat then—and I’m sorry that I have to be the one to break this you—you eat meat. You can take the first part of that definition and throw it away because—sorry, pal—you’re an asshole like the rest of us.

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