How to Be a Bogus Vegan
By Tom Kagy | 27 Dec, 2025

You don't actually have to eat those disgusting pricey vegan foods to pull off the ultimate urban image scam.

Being a vegan isn't just about what you put in your mouth; it's high-stakes performance art.  It's an image shortcut that tells the world you're disciplined, empathetic, and probably own a very expensive yoga mat.  But being a vegan is hard.  It involves reading the fine print on bread packages and mourning the loss of real brie.

The solution? The Bogus Vegan. This is the art of reaping all the social dividends of a plant-based lifestyle without ever having to actually digest a piece of unseasoned tempeh.  Here is how you pull off the ultimate urban image scam.

Phase One: The Visual Cues

You can't be a bogus vegan if you look like you enjoy a ribeye.  The aesthetic is half the battle.  You need to look slightly dehydrated but ethically superior. Start with the accessories.  A reusable water bottle isn't optional; it's your primary prop.  It should be covered in stickers for local granolas, independent bookstores, or hip political slogans.

Your wardrobe should scream "natural fibers."  If you're wearing polyester, you are failing.  Aim for linen, hemp, or cotton that looks like it was woven by someone who has never seen a television.  The goal is to look like you might go on a hike at any moment, even if the furthest you ever walk is from the Uber to the brunch spot.

Phase Two: The Digital Footprint

If a vegan eats a salad and doesn't post it on Instagram, did the nutrients even enter their bloodstream?  Absolutely not.  To be a successful bogus vegan, your social media must be a curated graveyard of plants.

You don't actually have to eat these things.  You just have to be near them.  Go to a high-end juice bar, order the $12 green sludge that tastes like a lawnmower bag, take a photo of it backlit by the sun, and then quietly dispose of it in the nearest trash can.  Caption it with something like "Liquid sunshine" or "Fueling for the week."

Pro tip: Occasionally post a photo of a very sad-looking avocado on toast with the caption "Simplicity." People eat that stuff up. It suggests you're way too busy saving the planet to worry about complex flavor profiles.

Phase Three: The Art of the "Cheat Day"

The key to being a bogus vegan is the strategic cheat. Real vegans have "slips." Bogus vegans have "controlled lapses in judgment due to systemic pressures."

When you're caught eating a slice of pepperoni pizza at 2:00 AM, do not panic. Don't apologize.  Lean into the drama.  Claim that you were feeling "protein-deficient" or that you're "listening to your body's ancestral cravings" this month.  If you frame your hypocrisy as a journey of self-discovery, people will find it brave rather than inconsistent.

The best place to be a bogus vegan is in public, and the best place to be a carnivore is in the dark of your own kitchen. Keep a shame drawer of beef jerky and string cheese. As long as the wrappers are buried at the bottom of the trash under a layer of kale stems, your reputation remains unsullied.

Phase Four: Mastering the Vocabulary

To sell the scam, you have to talk the talk.  Never say you are "on a diet." That sounds like you are trying to fit into pants.  Instead, say you are "transitioning to a plant-forward lifestyle."  Use words like "macro-nutrients," "bio-availability," and "sustainability."

When you go to a restaurant, ask the server if the wine is "fined with isinglass." They won't know what you're talking about, and honestly, neither will you, but it makes you look like an expert.  When someone offers you a cookie, don't just say no.  Say, "Oh, I'd love to, but I'm really trying to avoid processed cane sugar right now for my inflammation."  It shifts the conversation from your willpower to your biological enlightenment.

Phase Five: The Social Sabotage

A huge part of being a bogus vegan is making sure everyone else feels slightly worse about their own choices. This is the defensive perimeter that keeps people from questioning your own habits.

When a friend orders a steak, don't scold them—so amateur—but give them a look of profound, quiet pity.  Sigh softly and mention a documentary you "just couldn't finish" because it was so heart-wrenching.  You don't have to have actually watched the documentary; you just need to know the title. Mentally cataloging a few facts about methane emissions will buy you at least six months of unearned moral high ground.

Phase Six: The Grocery Store Performance

Your grocery cart is a public manifesto. If you are seen in the wild with a carton of eggs, the jig is up. However, grocery shopping as a bogus vegan is expensive. The trick is the "Top-Layer Method."

Fill the bottom of your cart with the frozen pizzas, the bacon, and the heavy cream. Then, cover those sins with a massive pile of loose spinach, three different types of sprouts, and several boxes of expensive nut milk. To any casual observer, you are a paragon of health. By the time you get to the checkout, the cashier is the only one who knows the truth, and they are too tired to care.

Why live a lie built on chickpeas and deception?  Because the social capital is enormous.  In certain circles, being vegan is a VIP pass.  It gets you invited to the "conscious" dinner parties.  It makes you look like you have your life together.  It suggests a level of self-control that most of us simply do not possess.

The beauty of being a bogus vegan is that you get the halo without the hunger.  You can enjoy the smug satisfaction of being the most "evolved" person in the room, then go home and eat a cheeseburger.  It's about the image, the brand, and the carefully filtered photos of oat milk lattes.  

Stay leafy, my friends.  Or at least, look like you are.