I’ve dated three vegetarians over the course of my life, and each experience has followed the same basic route. The first date with a vegetarian is very pleasant. She assures you that she’s “not one of those vegetarians. You can eat whatever you want,” and so you pick a neutral food place that offers both vegetarian and meaty options. When you order chicken alfredo, she doesn’t comment on your choice.

On the second date, when you order a hamburger, she will flinch slightly, as if a gnat just flew in her nose. She won’t say anything, but there will be an oddness in the air the entire evening that you’re both aware of, but neither of you want to discuss.

On the third date, you’ll order french dip with au jus sauce and she’ll launch into a 40-minute rant about the animal that had its face pulled out through its anus by a death robot in order to produce your sandwich. In your mind, you’ll be saying, “Death robot? Oh man, that sounds so cool”, but outwardly you’ll be staring blankly at this deranged yet attractive woman, realizing she has pulled the world’s most obvious bait-and-switch on you.

If you choose to go on a fourth date, you’ll need to either agree to become a vegetarian yourself, or treat it as a “hate date” vengeance opportunity in which you order prime rib and make caveman sounds as you eat it. No matter which option you choose, both of you will feel miserable and alone at the end of the evening.

Assuming her breasts are immaculate enough to cause you to convert to vegetarianism, please keep in mind that by doing so, you are essentially agreeing to two weeks of horrid, life altering diarrhea. The human body doesn’t care for drastic changes in diet, and when you switch from your usual daily intake of lukewarm Hot Pockets and stale beef jerky to sandwiches with actual vegetables in them and meals made almost entirely out of weird cheeses, your body will display its disapproval so bluntly that it will ruin any chance of you being intimate with your new girlfriend for a considerable period of time. Months later, when she dumps you for an authentic beatnik who looks like Anthony Kiedis with amusing facial hair, your bowels will go through the same torture when you switch back.

You’ll also get fatter. Much fatter. You’d think being a vegetarian would make you healthier and therefore skinnier, but when you don’t have meat to fill you up and your food options are limited, one tends to turn to sugary things like potato chips, cupcakes or just entire tubes of frosting.

Also be warned that the changes your new girlfriend requires won’t just be culinary. You’ll be prodded to rely on weird hippie ways of giving yourself energy, like exercise and proper nutrition. You’ll be encouraged to start actually recycling things instead of just chucking everything in the garbage and letting the hobos sort it out. You’ll be expected to spread vegetarianism to everyone you hold dear, like a missionary saving others from a terrible imaginary fate.

And god help you if she’s vegan, because that’s when things get really weird. You’ll start using laundry detergent that doesn’t smell nice and deodorant that doesn’t work. You’ll start bringing old lady tote bags to the grocery store and paying money to hear Ed Begley Jr. speak. You’ll humiliate yourself and everyone around you by asking waiters if their veggie burgers are cooked on the same grill as meat burgers. You’ll become the sort of douche that over the years always made you ponder, “How does one become such a douche?”

Then one day, you’ll wake up and notice the smell of patchouli, and realize it’s you. In a moment of panic, you’ll dump your girlfriend, shave your ironic facial hair, replace your vegetarian food with things that don’t leave you hungry, and remove your preachy Twitter updates and start posting normal ones about how you’re worried that the success of “Game of Thrones” will cause it to only feature three pairs of tits per episode instead of 14.

And then you’ll be free again. Sweet, sweet meaty freedom.

Yep. I’m in charge of the apocalypse. You’d think the devil would be in charge of that, but he’s busy executive producing the current season of “Glee”. It’s understandable. This year they broke records by ruining a good song every three seconds. So the apocalypse is up to us evangelicals, because other than the devil, there’s really no one on Earth who wants to see this happen more than us.

I dunno, though. Lately I’ve just been sluggish. Yesterday I saw a teenager queef on a homeless person, and rather than chase him down and lecture him about Where Jesus Would Vaginally Fart (WJWVF), I just continued eating my sandwich. “The hobo was asleep,” I said to myself, “and he probably appreciates the warmth.” But that’s not really the point, is it? The point is morals, and respect for God and yourself. I could have shit in the mouth of that homeless man and he probably would have ate it like a sandwich, but it wouldn’t trick God into thinking I’m a chef.

I should use that analogy in my next sermon. It’s good. Almost too good.

It’s really hard to get up the energy to start the apocalypse these days. The economy’s bad, so we’re all kinda used to just sitting at home and spacing out, and I still have a ton of weed left but every time it gets low I buy more because I forget that I’m supposed to cast all the heathens and gays and people who vote for Mitt Romney into hell. Maybe going to the gym would help? Y’know, baby steps: I get the ambition to go to the gym, then maybe pilates thrice a week, perhaps I’m commissioner of a fantasy baseball league for a while, and then I’ll have the moxie to pull off an apocalypse.

Tomorrow. I’ll start tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Possibly next week. There’s a potluck dinner coming up Saturday, then my wife and I are playing Boggle on Monday, because that’s our Boggle day. Oh crap, y’know what? New episodes of Archer start this week. I don’t want to miss that. Let’s put this thing off until summer. Definitely in the summer though, because 2012 will be half over and it’s going to take some time to go through the locusts and plagues and Emmys for that blonde chick from “2 Broke Girls”. We don’t want to miss our Mayan window.

I can assure you though, I will cast you all into hell. Eventually. I have some things to do. I’m very busy. I’ll get to it. Take this blessing of extra time to do some confessions, earn some brownie points by sitting in the front pew every Sunday, upgrade your standing with the Big Guy by not blowing everyone who walks into the bathroom at a Black Keys concert. Focus on that, and rest assured that I’ll be with you momentarily.

Oh man, is that a new Pepsi? Did they make a new Pepsi? A mid-calorie one, with fewer calories than regular Pepsi but more than Diet Pepsi? Oh man, I’ve been waiting forever for that. When is it coming out? Late spring? Shit. Wait, Wisconsin has had it for a year? Well that’s not fair. That’s not fair at all. It doesn’t seem right that others would get to enjoy a Pepsi that I have not enjoyed yet, and then the apocalypse happens.

Damn it! No! I need to do this. I need to apocalypse. It’s 2012, damn it. Enough with the distractions. I have to put aside my own desires for the good of people’s souls. The Mormons haven’t had the new soft drink yet either, so we’re good. I’m a little pissed that all those Lutherans in La Crosse got it first, but so be it. It was God’s will. Let’s apocalypse. Apocalypse time. I gots to apocalypse. Let’s go.

Seriously though, it’s such a waste. Fucking Pepsi, man. I gotta think about this for a while. I’ll get back to you on this whole apocalypse thing. There are more important things on my mind at the moment.

- I will stop drinking tap water, because my skin is developing an odd glow to it. The lady at the Water and Power Company said she heard it’s a side effect from masturbating too often, but she said it kind of sarcastically and I think she either doesn’t get paid enough to care or is trying to cover up a massive conspiracy to test X-Men style powers on poor people.

- I will save the environment by taking the bus more often, even though everyone who rides the bus smells like dog shit.

- I will stop shouting “You’re not Tina Fey, you’re just ugly!” at women who wear cat-eye glasses. Sadly, the epidemic is so widespread that half the women wearing these glasses don’t even know Tiny Fey exists.

- I will refer to future girlfriends as “the girlfriend” rather than “that lady who keeps sleeping with me.”

- In an effort to get laid more than once per year, I’ll stop refusing to sleep with women who wear bras and panties that don’t match.

- I will stop putting my lips on drinking fountains, and will count three bouts of hepatitis in one year as a lesson learned.

- I will stop making fun of men named “Elton”, and gifting them sequined outfits for Christmas.

- I will stop harassing farmer’s market stands that sell bananas, even though they deserve it because bananas don’t grow here and they obviously bought them from the supermarket.

- I will dedicate more time to charity, as long as “Charity” is the name of a soon to be released first-person shooter for the Playstation 3.

- I will stop going to the bathroom with the door open, even though it’s my apartment and guests should adjust to my lifestyle, not the other way around.

- I will kiss with my eyes open, just to freak women out.

- I will read an actual book all the way through, without complaining about the tediousness of such a task to people around me.

- I will stop trying to impress women by claiming to be Magic Johnson of the Los Angeles Lakers. It never worked very well anyway.

- I will stop telling children that pregnancy is caused by not going to the bathroom often enough.

- I will stop trying to marry Regina Spektor and start trying to marry that woman from Florence and the Machine. It’s a bit of a downgrade, but it’s important to stay current in Hollywood.

- I will only wear jeans to funerals if the deceased was an asshole.

- I will stop telling people I used to write scripts for the TV show “Maude”.

- I will live each day as if everyone were trying to steal my possessions and my semen were about to expire, just like Ernest Hemingway.

- I will stop telling lies about my publisher, Bob Boone.

- Bob Boone used to fuck penguins.