It started, as all bad decisions do, with family.
Brother “Goose” (named for his unfortunate habit of honking when he laughs) got roped into attending his niece’s vegan potluck. He said no. Then his sister said “you never come to anything.” Then his mom called. And that’s how a grown man with a shaved head, prison ink, and a 103 cubic inch V-Twin wound up trying to parallel park outside a Unitarian church with a “Coexist” bumper sticker glaring at him from a Prius.
Naturally, he wore his cut. Not out of disrespect, but because, well, it’s Goose. You ask him to take off his colors, you better be armed, blessed, and fast on your feet.
The first problem? The food table. Goose wandered up like he was inspecting enemy rations. It was a minefield of danger:
- “Raw walnut pate” (which tastes like sadness spread on a cracker)
- A dish labeled “Gluten-Free, Soy-Free, Nut-Free, Taste-Free Mac & Cheese”
- And something called “tofu ceviche,” which should be a war crime
He poked at a bowl of quinoa with suspicion. A woman in a tie-dye sundress smiled warmly and said, “It’s high in plant protein!” Goose nodded. “So’s my steak,” he replied, and grabbed a handful of baby carrots like they were Slim Jims.
Problem number two? The kids. One came up and asked if he was in a gang. Goose squatted down and said, “Nah kid, I’m in a tribe.” That seemed to settle it until the kid asked, “Do you ride electric?”
Goose stood up. Said nothing. Just walked to the snack table and ate an entire plate of hummus out of pure spite.
The real trouble came when someone brought out the kombucha. A guy in a man-bun offered Goose a “home-brewed elderflower batch with fermented ginger.” Goose, mistaking it for some kind of weak beer, downed a glass. Five minutes later, he was in the corner whispering “I see colors” and swearing the potato salad was talking to him. (To be fair, it probably was. That thing was bubbling.)
Eventually, Goose slipped out early. He left a $20 donation in the “Vegan School Lunch Fund,” got back on his hog, and rode straight to a BBQ joint. Ordered a rack of ribs, a cheeseburger, and a side of meat.
Later that night, we asked him how it went. He said:
“I survived tofu, judgment, and kombucha. I’ve seen hell, boys. It smells like patchouli and soy.”
Moral of the story? Respect your family. Support your niece. But if you’re going to a vegan potluck, maybe leave the cut at home. Or at least bring beef jerky.