Fuck Salad

I’m a vegetarian and people always offer me a salad.

You know what? Fuck salad.

Lettuce is barely a green. Why don’t you offer me a saggy strip of wallpaper from your guest bathroom? That would be more delicious.

Also, do you know the markup on lettuce? It’s picked and packaged by undocumented and underpaid migrant workers. Then it’s sold to me with a 500% profit for an evil agra-business.

No thanks. I don’t want any part of that.

Don’t try to butter me up with tomatoes and cucumbers, either. Those are condiments, for chrissake. There’s nothing sadder than watching someone eat a side salad with French dressing and act like it’s both nourishing and tasty.

Forget it, chump. I know that salad tastes like Legos.

Maybe you’re a fan of salad. I don’t mean to offend you. Whenever I go on a salad rant, I get friends who say, “But I know this restaurant makes a great spinach salad.”

Hold the phone. It’s a bag of spinach with some oranges thrown into the mix. Nobody made anything. To make something, you gotta show talent and some love. And don’t charge me $12 for a plate of green leaves that are 90% water. I sorta want those restaurants to sneak in some chicken. At least I’d get my money’s worth.

But I will say that I have a lot of love for salsa, which is salad with some balls. Add some chips, guacamole, and a margarita. I’d eat that salad all day long, baby.