Flexitarians are so-called semi-vegetarians because they have a primarily vegetarian diet, but occasionally eat meat--some kind of diet augmentation. I pretty much only like my augmentation on a woman's chest, or maybe my johnson if it needed it (it doesn't, trust me). You start adding to definitions, and you get anarchy and mayhem. We started out with Jesus on a cross, some people come along and start adding things to it, and BOOM. Two thousand years later you get Mormons, Rupert Murdoch, and now, Flexitarians.

If you look at it from a rigid philosophical standpoint, flexitarians practice the insane and post-modern relativistic ethical quackery of shitting out of both ends.

Now, I am a firm omnivore, and have achieved a level of indifference toward those who choose to eat only plants. I have a number of friends who are vegan, and over the years I have grown to appreciate those who remain firm in their faith and follow through with action that reflects that faith. There's a kind of purity in those who claim a lifestyle that demands asceticism of any kind, even if it is misguided or just flat-out wrong. Like God, I prefer it if a person is boiling hot or freezing cold.

Flexitarianism, like bisexuality, flies in the face of the cherished dogma of what I might call the Robert Frost Postulate, which states that one must choose one road or the other. Taking of both roads not only violates basic quantum physics laws, it also makes you look like a selfish A-hole. A folksonomically-limited diet gives you at least the veneer of respectability. Vegetarians who allow themselves the luxury of meat are nothing more than painted food whores. Maybe we should just call you a bi-vore.

When you really look at food lifestyle choices, it boils down to a few simple choices. But if you call your failed bid for elitism without the work flexitarianism, I'll kick you in the nuts, because that's what you are.

Kay, brahs and chicas. It's time to put an end to this spasmodic bullspit you hipster wackjobs call dancing. It's not enough you look like seizure patients off your Ritalin or whatever, but you're downright dangerous with your spiked hair, your white Marc Ecko glasses that you don't even frakking need, your striped shirt and your trucker hat...gyrating like Mariah just gave you a front row pass to the world Boobie shaking contest, and busting your nuts all over the Parquet with no regard for human decency, safety, or trigonometry.

You dipsters are ruining what could be moderately good fun at a swanky joint. As soon as someone turns up DJ Tiësto you lose all bodily inhibition and motor control and flail about. Even if the music is dope—and nope, it's a joke—it still doesn't give you the right to wutz in five-dimensional space-time. You take up more room than a Busby Berkeley choreography scene if it was invaded by Gestapo officers dressed up as the A Team and turned into an impromptu lesson in how to smoke crack rock through your pooper.

Every time I see one of you tan-skinned circus ringmaster coat-wearing unnecessarily grown-and-ironically-groomed facial hair sporting mincing little fucktards masturbating against some skanky little tube-topper, wiggling your hands around in the air as if you're worshiping some anti-symmetry deity, it makes me want to seriously f*ck your sh*t up.

Or better yet, I'd like to stand up, walk over to your marker-colored Converse All-Stars ass and hand you a card that reads, “Congratulations, you're a douche.”

Get a life, brocephus. Just because you woke up this morning with a Whole Foods hangover after drinking a six-pack of PBR, slumping on top of the pierced-up Goth chick who thinks horn-rimmed glasses makes you have bigger boners, banging until that annoying Arcade Fire singer hits that really high note, then promising to take her to the Tattle Tale Club downtown because you want to let her down easy, doesn't make you God's gift to the dance floor.

In point of fact, you're a total menace. Get lost, douche.