I have no shortage of examples of beliefs I have challenged in my life. Today, however, I have decided to challenge something new, something about which I haven’t spoken out, although it’s always caused me deep distress. Right now, I urge you to stand with me and cast off the fetters of society; right now, I implore you to help me in my battle against the tyranny of wedge salads.
   Anyone who is acquainted with me knows that I am extremely passionate about my beliefs. My challenging behavior began in the womb when I stubbornly planted my fetus feet on my mother’s hip bones and refused to be born. Once I was forced into the world, however, it became clear that I had taken my spirited behavior with me. I have slashed sexist comments with Herculean perseverance, spoken out against social justice issues with the passion of Zeus hoisting his mighty thunderbolt, and defended bullied friends with the ferocity of the warrior Achilles; however, the curse of wedge salads is by far the most frightening and intimidating issue I have confronted yet.
What is a wedge salad? Let me describe it. The dish is aptly named because it is literally a wedge: an uncut, raw chunk of iceberg lettuce. Beside this sad excuse for a main course, a few sorry piles of ingredients are lumped. A lucky diner might receive a meager, tablespoon-sized cup of dressing.
Can the chef truly say that he has prepared his customer a meal if all he has done is slam a small portion of raw ingredients onto a plate? To me, nothing is more hostile and immoral. It is as if the restaurant is saying to me, “Here. Take your ingredients. You want them mixed? Do it yourself. You want them cut? Do it yourself. You will eat your raw skeleton of a meal, you will pay for it, and you will enjoy it.”
I once ordered a wedge salad at a restaurant. I saw it brazenly printed on the menu, nestled between “Caesar” and “Greek” as if it had a right to be there. I was young and naive, my pure, unmarred soul still believing in the goodness and trustworthiness of humanity. I innocently ordered the plague of a dish.
When my first wedge salad was placed before me, I had a vision. Vivid images of myself crouched in a dank, mud-smeared prison cell flashed behind my eyelids. In this scene, the primitive, barely-moral meal of a wedge salad was being shoved through a metal slate in the door and onto the floor. I fell desperately upon the nourishment, ravenous, but then I leapt backwards, hissing in disgust. It was naught more than a slab of slimy vegetation! Around me, my fellow prisoners begin to gnaw upon each other’s limbs, falling to cannibalism while their wedge salads remained untouched.
Wedge salads traumatized me, and if I don’t stand up against them now, who will? I believe that if I live my life without a constantly questioning, wondering attitude, I will never be able to make progress. By fighting to ban wedge salads from menus across the globe, I can help rescue future victims from the horror I experienced. For this honorable cause, I would fight the wedge salad any day.
Wedge salads represent everything that is impure and unfair in this world. For the sake of business, restaurants succumb to their greed and exploit innocent salad-eaters for profit. They don’t realize the real cost of what they are doing: making this society a cruel, trustless brawl for money that disregards all kindness.
I will not stand idly by and let this happen. Rise with me, and together, we will hail a dawn of mankind that is empathetic, curious, progressive, and most importantly, wedge-salad-free.