hate walking through Sproul Plaza, the social center at Cal. So many misguided individuals gleefully peddling their wares. Would you like a Squelch humor mag? A Daily Cal student newspaper, perhaps? Join our club? Come to our party? See our speaker? Support our cause? Save the animals, the poor; protest this, that and the other. Sign a petition to save the environment? That's the one I got today. A petition, huh? And you will give this petition to big business buckos nesting atop their monstrous mounds of ill-gotten gains? I bet when you do present them with your petty 'petition to save the environment' they will change their ways, too. "Oh, woe is me! How did I not see this before?" They shall exclaim, eyes wide in hippy horror, "my oil empire kills seals? My lumber mill kills trees? My multi-national manufacturing conglomerate exploits third world foreigners? How shall I ever redeem myself?!?"

No, I doubt it. Perhaps I was in a bad mood, but when this hippy-child environmentalist asked if I would like to sign a 'petition to save the environment', I responded: "No, thanks, I don't like the environment anyway." To which she so brilliantly quipped: "I don't believe you." Cut to the quick I am: wounded in heart and soul and steadily wasting away in the face of your ironclad rhetoric. You don't believe me? Does organic food make you retarded? Well, consider this:

I only wear clothes mass-produced in sweatshops by destitute third world peasants. I do not wear fur, but I find it sexy. Not because it's soft, but because it once was a living, breathing critter. And now it's dead. I get turned on just writing about it.

I only eat fast food. I always get take-out and always insist on a styrofoam container. I just think food tastes better when served in an oil-based, non-biodegradeable, toxic container. No styrofoam? No chloroflouro carbons? No service.

I love the taste of alligator, rhino, elephant, bison... I love mad libs too; let's try one: I love to eat ______________ [noun, endangered/extinct animal).

When I do go to the grocery store, I ask for paper and plastic. Triple bagged. When I get home, I burn the paper bags. And the plastic. Not for heat, not for warmth, just for pretty. My dog and I get high on the fumes.

I always leave my lights on and refuse to use flourescent or energy-saver bulbs. Energy-saver bulbs are for hippies and euros. I only use electricity produced by the wasteful combustion of precious fossil fuels. Fossil fuels are sexy. They too were once living, breathing critters. Extinct critters: even better. I like the idea that their remains were burned for my illuminating pleasure. Even when I'm not home, it's just comforting to know that if someone breaks into my house, they won't be tripping on my coffee table in the dark.

In autumn, when the eastern winds begin to stir and desiduous arbors are shedding their brightly colored leaves, I like to stand on my porch, breathing deeply of the crisp morning air, glass of warm eggnog in one hand, rake in the other. I could stand like that for hours, taking in the beauty of the world: the empty street, my breath turning to swirling tendrils of fog in the bitter cold, the stunningly blue sky. So crystal clear. All that could make this vast, blue expanse more beautiful, I begin to think, is a giant pillar of smoke. I pull my albino tiger skin parka closer around me for warmth (I said I didn't wear fur? I lied. I do that too, you hippy motherfuckers), chuck my glass of eggnog through my neighbor's window and wipe my hands on my ferret fur pants. Now I set to work: with the rake I gather all the leaves I can find into one big pile, douse the motherfucker with unleaded gasoline (I wish they still made the leaded stuff, it tasted and smelled so much better) siphoned from my neighbor's fuel-efficient, foreign automobile (conserve this, biotch!) and light my sacrificial pyre to the god's of nature from afar with an aerosol can flamethrower. Flames dance. Smoke floats. And now my day is perfect. I love autumn, but sometimes, in the summer, I get bored. I can't wait for the lazy-ass trees to shed their stupid leaves. Instead, I will cut the tree down with my gas powered chainsaw, burn the sappy wood in my fireplace (god, I wish trees could scream), and toss the green leaves in my incinerator. If I'm really lazy, I'll just light the tree where it stands. Fuck cutting it down.

I run my sprinklers three times a day, even though my lawn is dead and yellow. But with all the burning I've been doing, I feel it's best to have a nice, moist expanse of dead grass as a buffer before my house. I mow my "grass" too. Twice a week. With a gas-powered mower. Nothing better than the smell of combusted hydrocarbons in the morning. Except perhaps charred animal flesh. Baby seal is my favorite. Or maybe magic markers. Oh, and aerosol sprays, I love those, too. I don't use hair spray, but I've made a habit of buying at least one aerosol can of hair spray a day and emptying it into the air. It's become a ritual. I'm supporting the economy with my purchase and I figure if I can make the ozone hole bigger it will be easier for me to get a tan.

I have three refridgerators. One for meat. One for everything else and one just because. I leave their doors open, just in case I'm in a hurry and the precious seconds I would have spent opening the door could be better suited doing something else. Like eating animals. Or burning trees.

I drive my cadillac everywhere: down the block, to the market, back and forth to work, next door. Sometimes I leave it running while I'm grocery shopping just because I can. Vive la capitalism! But I never carpool. I don't trust anyone else's microbe-infested ass on my patent-leather seats.

Do you believe me now, you goddamn hippy?

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