Ron White – Live from the “Oops, Not a JUST a Vegan” Tour
“Folks, this one’s true. Or at least emotionally accurate.”
So I’m sittin’ at this bougie cocktail bar, drinkin’ somethin’ green that tastes like a garden hose with a college degree…
And this little thing walks up—cute, big eyes, hair like she reads poetry but still vapes in church—and she says real sweet:
“I’m a vegan.”
Now, I’ve dated vegans before. I know the rules. You can’t eat bacon in bed, unless it’s made of almonds and shame.
So I go, “That’s fine, sweetheart. I’ve had tofu. I’ve cried in a Whole Foods. I’m culturally fluent.”
So we hit it off. We’re drinkin’. We’re laughin’. She says she likes Camus. I say I like Camaros. It’s practically the same thing.
And she says, “I’m just waiting for the right guy.”
I go, “Well darlin’, I parked out front.”
She giggles. We get in the Uber. Her perfume smells like sage and academic trauma. My breath smells like regret and smoked whiskey.
We get back to the hotel. She kicks off her combat boots—because of course—and she’s got socks with little Nietzsche quotes on ‘em.
I pour her a glass of wine. She sips it like it’s got meaning. Then she gets real quiet and says…
“Ron… I need to tell you something. I’m not just vegan… I’m a virgin.”
I said…
“Fuck. I hate that.”
Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t mad at her. Be whatever you wanna be. Virgin, vegan, vegetarian, Vulcan. If you’re female; I don’t judge.
But I don’t do virgins, and I’ll tell you why:
Reason One: I Don’t Want That Responsibility.
I’m barely qualified to babysit a cactus, and you wanna hand me the keys to your sacred flower like I’m some kind of spiritual locksmith?
Sweetheart, this ain’t a Nicholas Sparks novel—it’s a Thursday night at the Comfort Inn.
Reason Two: I’m 67.
I’ve thrown out my back eating pancakes. You want me to be your first experience?
You deserve a boy who’s flexible, tender, and still owns cartilage.
I got titanium in places that used to be knees. When I grunt during sex, it’s ’cause something’s cramping, not because I’m inspired.
Reason Three: It Never Ends Clean.
You take a virgin’s V-card and suddenly you’re a milestone in someone’s memoir.
Ten years later, she’s telling her therapist, “I lost it to a man named Ron who quoted Merle Haggard and smelled like a Waffle House fire.”
Now I’m part of her trauma collage. I don’t need that. I’m already dodging Yelp reviews from ex-wives.
So I sat her down, real gentle, and I said:
“Darlin’, I thought you said vegan, not virgin… I’m not emotionally insured for this ride.”
And she said, “Is that a dealbreaker?”
I said, “It ain’t a dealbreaker. But it is a reality check.”
Look, folks, I’ve made a lot of questionable choices in my life.
I once ate gas station sushi on a dare.
I bought a timeshare in Tampa just ‘cause the guy had a nice mustache.
But even I know—virgins and comedians don’t mix.
One of us cries when it’s over. And it ain’t me.
So we hugged. She vaped. I left.
Stopped at a diner and got bacon.
Not almond bacon. Not pretend bacon.
Real, crispy, unapologetic, meat-born-from-meat bacon.
And I raised a toast to clarity.
To understanding the difference between vegan and virgin.
And to all the little mistakes I didn’t make that night.
