Mission Mission

Vegansaurus has the scoop on how Mission Mission’s constructive criticism was received.

Previously on Mission Mission:

• Mission Vegans Need to Learn How to Market Themselves

I saw this poster for the upcoming SF Vegan Bakesale and first thought, “Sweet!  I love cupcakes and the last vegan bakesale was fucking delicious!”  But then I really looked at the poster.  Vegans should be depicted as state-smashing, corporation-crushing, heart-breaking, chain smoking bike riders with an attitude so surly it is adorable.  So, what the fuck is this?  Vegans: if you want people to join your cause, do not pretend to be virginal middle schoolers whose most naughty action was sneaking an episode of “The Simpsons” while your parents were not looking.

Here, I made you a better poster:

Nothing says "our cause is awesome as shit" like an American flag bikini wearing, riffle-holding, hockey mom that will never win an election again but boys in Alabama love to masturbate to.

Sugarlump at 24th and Florida is now serving vegan tamales.  Ordinarily this would not be noteworthy, but if they are the delicious yet elusive SF Vegan Tamales, this is totally earth-shattering.

(via Vegansaurus! via eddo_likes_you via Futurama)

Chase Bank is feeding you Herbivore for free.  FREE FOOD.  Like Herbivore or not, at least it’s not a cult (although they could be).

(via vegansaurus!)

Even though I have lived in the Mission for five years now, the first time I had a famous bacon-wrapped hotdog was last October. It was five beers in on a 12-beer night. It was deliciously disgusting. The mix of chewy bacon wrapped around beef entrails and smothered in mayo churns my stomach even today. Maybe it’s because girls don’t have that love for bacon that boys do. Or maybe it has to do with the fact that after eating said hotdog, I went to a friend’s dance party which led to the tell-all bacon-wrapped hotdog fart. Fortunately, most of the people at the party were vegans, so they couldn’t tell what or whom it came out of. But my bacon-wrapped-hotdog-eating partner-in-crime shook his fist at me from across the room. Maybe one day in an alcohol-induced trance, the smell will be wiped from my memory and I’ll be able to eat one again. Sigh.