It’s completely unfair, completely irrational – and not even completely true in all cases – but I hate vegetarians. I get a little Denis Leary on this issue.

I hate the sister-in-law who can’t help pushing her self-righteous vegan viewpoint on my formerly carnivorous big brother.

I hate the guest at my summer barbecue who insisted I clear and clean a special portion of the grill for her precious asparagus spears.

And I hate all those otherwise inoffensive veggie types who can’t help simultaneously declaring their disgust for my meat-eating ways and superiority for their own limpy-wimpy existence.

Why do I have such a visceral and aggrieved reaction? I think it’s because I feel persecuted. You see, I was once a full-time smoker. I still enjoy puffing a butt when I can, but I’ve noticed that pleasure being taken from me. I can handle not smoking in a restaurant or a bar. Passive smoke is bad. I get it.

But how far must we go? Take those signs stopping you from smoking within 30 feet of a building entrance. Are people really so concerned about making their way through the Camel cloud that they need to enforce asinine rules of this kind? That’s the difference between sensible and hysterical.

I hate vegetarians because they veer towards hysteria, and that hysteria is turning meat-eaters into the smokers of the new millennium. Did you ever see “Demolition Man?” I fear that look on Sandra Bullock’s face when Sly Stallone wakes up in the future, wanting red meat to go with his cancer stick. I hate them because I fear their numbers are growing.

Beyond that, I hate vegetarians not because they don’t know what they’re missing, but because most of them know exactly what they’re missing, yet still pretend their simpering supplement is anywhere near as amazing as the Reuben at Shapiro’s, the eye fillet at Broad Ripple Steak House, the Dancing Dragon Roll at Naked Tchopstix, the fish and chips at Chatham Tap, the beef shawarma at Sam’s Gyros, a Colossus slice from Bazbeaux, the burger at Workingman’s Friend, or that Hoosier favorite, a tenderloin sandwich from The Aristocrat.

I hate vegetarians because they’re forever suffering iron deficiencies, but will wax lyrical for hours on the health benefits of their lifestyle.

I hate them because they call it a “lifestyle.”

I hate them because they excavate their patch of inner-city backyard and call themselves urban farmers.

I hate them because they lavish praise on any restaurant that has a section devoted to their curious kind. It’s as if the restaurateur were somehow more enlightened and wise than a guy who knows how to slow roast a perfect pork shoulder over 12 hours.

I hate them because just when you’re ready to do them a favor and cook vegetarian nachos for dinner, they chastise you for failing to make sure the refried beans weren’t cooked in animal fat. As if you knew, or cared, or knew you were supposed to care.

I hate them because they’re insufferable and intolerant and judgmental.

I hate them because they remind me of me.

Read Jenny Elig’s vegetarian perspective:
http://www.indy.com/posts/carniv...