By then, you’re strapped in for 3,800 more words, composed in variations of the following: Foodies are borderline evil. Also, stupid idiots.

There are several discussions of the grotesque moral rationalizing of meat-eating. That is certainly fair, if rewritten from a similar piece he wrote a few years ago, but is it the foodies who should take the blow of that strike, or all meat eaters? But then Myers goes on weird, so-angry-the-spittle’s-flying tangents, like how foodies’ preference for meat from small farms isn’t about ethics or flavor or sustainability, but rather “largely motivated by their traditional elitism,” because “it has always been crucial to the gourmet’s pleasure that he eat in ways the mainstream cannot afford.” Who confesses this to him? How does he figure this out? Who is this cynical foodie he’s talking about? Who knows? But he’s out there somewhere, and he’s a stupid jerkface.

Later, Myers continues to scream “Get off my lawn!” at foodies who are interested in cultural tradition. To his mind, they only respect the sort that allows them to eat ever more (and more repugnant foods, apparently, like cats). Restrictive traditions, such as keeping kosher, he claims, are inevitably the target of foodie sabotage, like how they’re always forcing Jews to eat pork and laughing about it. (Seriously, he says this.)

At this point, you might be thinking that this is some pretty straw-man stuff, and you’d be right. Reading this thing is like going to a football game on homecoming weekend at Straw Man State U.

And sadly for him, Myers’ faux-populist ranting is betrayed by his own obvious elitism.

And when foodies talk of flying to Paris to buy cheese, to Vietnam to sample pho? They’re not joking about that either. Needless to say, no one shows much interest in literature or the arts — the real arts. When Marcel Proust’s name pops up, you know you’re just going to hear about that damned madeleine again.

Yes, yes, Proust and that damned madeleine. It is one of the most-abused clichés in food writing, and yes, it is mostly abused by people who don’t know the second thing about Proust. “How dare these philistines besmirch his name with their petty concerns! Don’t they know to let the real thinkers speak of the ‘real arts’?” Myers practically seethes.

It’s silly to refute someone whose argumentative strategy is, “There are people who annoy me, and they are obviously not capable of speaking of high-minded things because I have not encountered them doing so.” But sure, I’ll take the bait.

Just yesterday, I talked with a famous chef who made his name on innovation. He has a new restaurant, where the purpose is to re-create dishes from another time and place. Our conversation was fascinating and wide-ranging — we wrestled with whether such a restaurant would become a museum, a place where old ideas are encased in amber, or whether it can breathe life into those cast-off cuisines. We wondered about the dueling responsibilities and urges of a chef to be creative while also hewing closely to recipes written 100 years ago. We asked each other about the very notion of “authenticity” in presenting this food, when its documentation exists only in the form of a vaguely worded book that explicitly states that these dishes should be made according to the perspective of the chef preparing them.

“Foodies quickly lose interest in any kind of abstract discussion,” Myers tsk-tsks. I dare submit that the conversation I’m talking about is an abstract discussion, but what do I know? I’m just a foodie.

What’s sad about Myers’ rant, though, is that while whipping foodies for being incurious about anything other than what goes in their fat dumb mouths, he exhibits his own willful ignorance. At one point, he sneers at a

sort of milk-toast priest, anthologized in Best Food Writing 2010, who expounds unironically on the ‘ritual’ of making the perfect slice:

“The things involved must be few, so that their meaning is not diffused, and they must somehow assume a perceptible weight. They attain this partly from the reassurance that comes of being ‘just so,’ and partly by already possessing the solidity of the absolutely familiar.”

If Myers is capable of glee, I’m sure he could hardly believe his luck in coming across a foodie so painfully dull as to actually glorify milk toast, the greatest cliché of mediocrity in the English language. But he doesn’t have the generosity of spirit or imagination to allow that the milk toast priest may be serious precisely because the object of his interest has never been deemed worthy of consideration in the past. Isn’t that one of the central points of writing and art? To see and share the complexity in the overlooked world?

Myers offers no sense that there might be value, however odd or small, in this kind of examination. He offers no sense, even, that a person interested in food can actually process it as an interest. No, in his world, there are only “truly sociable human beings” and then there are “foodies,” and foodies are like zombies feasting on what they wish were actual human brains. (Because, of course, the more amoral the taste, the better.)

Myers’ problem isn’t, then, so much that foodies are philistines, but that food, and perhaps the people who prepare it, are below consideration. He could be writing this rant about people with ant farms, if people with ant farms started showing up in the New York Times a little too often for his tastes. While mocking the notion that guests — gasp! — might be expected to eat what their host has served them, he wonders, “Is there any civilized value that foodies cannot turn on its head? Enjoinders to put the food provider’s feelings above all else are just part of the greater effort to sanctify food itself.”

Here are Myers’ prejudices on display. It is a “civilized value” that the host please the guest; what is being inverted is not that the guests must have “greater obligation” to please the host, but that the guest enters the interaction with any sense of responsibility at all. Underneath the hyperbolic language, I smell a contempt for the idea of honoring the subservient. And, more saliently, in his rage against “sanctifying food,” that food itself is base material; it is not worthy of consideration and reverence. 

How joyless! How sad and dour he must be. I cook food because I love food. I eat food because I love food. But I write about food because I love people — I love the stories of people who cook and eat and share food, of how they come together around it, how they see the world through it, and how you can see a part of them through it. To me, these stories, these connections are full of wonder and surprise. Sometimes they’re complicated and painful, sometimes they’re generous and happy. To revel in that is to understand the power of food, and, for me, to be in a joyful place. But maybe I just suffer from “an uncomprehending dullness of mind.”

The greatest evidence of Myers’ own dourness is his omission of any of the joy of food writing. A lot of that published joy is, yes, one-note. It’s not articulated brilliantly, it doesn’t resonate with readers, it can be boring. But even at that, its greatest sin is that it is an uninteresting outward expression of an inward joy. But Myers either discounts or doesn’t see that; he sees it all as macho gamesmanship and narcissistic navel-gazing.

Getting away from the food books he had been sentenced, by assignment, to read, he writes, is like “stepping from a crowded, fetid restaurant into silence and fresh air.” But what restaurant have you ever been to that was both crowded and fetid? Why would a stinky place be so popular? Maybe Myers would be happier if he went to better restaurants.

Led by Neal D. Barnard, the nonprofit PCRM shares similar goals with PETA: the promotion of veganism for the benefit of both health and animal rights. And lately, it’s had something else in common with it — attention-getting stunts. Where better to pick a fight than the heart of dairy country, with a big billboard near Lambeau Field, home of the Green Bay Packers, featuring a cheesehead grim reaper. The sign warns football fans that “Cheese can sack your health. Fat. Cholesterol. Sodium.” Don’t forget deliciousness!

Cheese, of course, is to Wisconsin what suicide-inducing rain is to Seattle: a way of life. So it’s unlikely that too many Packers fans driving Route 41 this weekend to watch the Super Bowl champions do their thing will screech to a halt in the road and declare, “Maybe I’ll just have a Miller and some soy feta today.” What the PCRM is shrewdly banking on here is the power of  location. By defiantly taking its case to the heart of dairy country with an in-your-face, “cheese kills” message, the organization knows it’s sure to rile up controversy — and spark conversation.

Sure enough, the battle lines have already been drawn. Surprisingly, though, the first retort came not from angry cheese lovers but from the company Foamation Inc. — makers of the iconic cheesehead. Speaking to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, office manager Denise Kaminski declared, “We by no means would condone that.  We’re a dairy state, for gosh sakes.” She reiterated Foamation’s pro-cheese stance — and proved that there are still places in America where people say “for gosh sakes.”

In a hasty display of butt covering, the PCRM’s general counsel responded that, “There’s no way that anyone could perceive this as an attack on a hat. We have no intention of impugning Cheeseheads as individuals, we have no intention of impugning Cheeseheads as articles of clothing.” I just want to take a step back here and remind everybody that we are talking about an image of the Grim Reaper. Brandishing a scythe and wearing cheese on his hooded head.

Absurd as the whole contretemps is, it does present an opportunity to examine our less-than-stellar American eating habits. The PCRM notes that we are eating triple the amount of cheese we did back in 1970 — an artery-clogging 33 pounds a year. And its list of the delicacies at Lambeau Field are enough to make even the strong-stomached reach for the Lipitor: “deep-fried Wisconsin cheese curds; Cheesehead Beer Cheese Soup, made with cheddar cheese, beer and then topped with more cheese; and nachos piled with cheddar cheese and sour cream.” And in a state where “one-third of children and half of adults are already either overweight or obese,” all that cheddar can’t be helping the public health.

But should the treats at Lambeau, as the committee has asked Green Bay Mayor Jim Schmitt, get warning labels? And is cheese, as PCRM spokeswoman Susan Levin says, a “junk food”? Surely 65 million French people would say non. Or as Mayor Schmitt calls the whole thing, that’s “kind of silly.”

We live in an all-or-nothing culture. For some, that works out fine. But not everyone who savors the occasional fondue or croque monsieur is headed down the road of arterial blockage. Dairy products, in moderation, can be a reasonable source of calcium and protein. Cheese can also be one of the most beautifully crafted, deeply complex foods human beings can create. If you think understanding wine is complex, talk to someone who knows cheese.

And that’s the distinction. Taking aim at “cheese” is like dissing “bread.” It doesn’t recognize the distinctions of varieties; it doesn’t allow for the different ways in which it can be created and consumed. Which, by the way, is not a put-down on those fried cheese curds, which sound kind of amazing.

The American diet needs to be examined, and if you’re living on all nachos, all the time, you’re begging for health problems. But it doesn’t necessarily follow that everybody driving down the road to a Packers game needs the icy finger of death wagged in their faces — especially when many of those people make their living in the industry the PCRM is trying to shame. Scolding doesn’t change minds or habits. Fear rarely does either. And though shock tactics may get publicity, do they ever really help win anyone’s goodwill? Life, health and work are far more complex than a smug message on a billboard. And maybe next time the PCRM wants to get people to cut the cheese, they can start with a campaign that doesn’t stink.

Kibwe Tavares’ short film “Robots of Brixton” imagines a world where sentient machines are given inhuman treatment by humans. An interesting memorial to the 1981 Brixton riots.

3. Joey Chestnuts, official winner of Nathan’s Famous hot dog eating contest

For the fifth year in a row, Joey “Jaws” Chestnuts won Nathan’s annual hot dog-scarfing contest in Coney Island. 

4. Actual winner of hot dog eating contest

Professional eater Takeru Kobayashi technically ate more ‘dogs on the Fourth than Joey (setting a world record with 69 buns and beef) , but was considered ineligible for the Coney Island event since he won’t sign an exclusive contract with Major League Eating. 

5. Twin infants sync laughter

Well, this is almost as creepy/adorable as those talking babies. 

Sadly, these kinds of calls aren’t as uncommon as you might think. In March 2009 a woman called the police after being given the wrong order of McNuggets at McDonald’s.

That wasn’t even the first time that year an emergency hotline was called because of fast food. In fact, it happened quite a bit in 2009. (Maybe McDonald’s was just particularly sucky that year.)

Regardless, it’s 2011 now and we’re all grown-ups. That doesn’t mean we expand our 911 repertoires to calling in about botched Chinese food orders. It means that we stop tying up the police phone line unless we actually have an emergency that doesn’t involve a delivery service.

But how “friendly” is Ronald? A new study done by outside marketing group Ace Metric found that in a survey group of 500, an overwhelming amount found a guy with big red lips and white greasepaint more creepy than cute.

McDonald’s refuses to give up on Ronald, though, and its defense on why it needs to keep a terrifying clown as its mascot would be charming if it weren’t so ridiculous and backward. Below, five of the responses McDonald’s has given for keeping Ronald on the payroll.

1. Complaint: “It’s really remarkable how often I saw the word ‘creepy’ [in regards to Ronald],” says the V.P. of a company that conducted the survey.

McDonald’s response: “For everyone who may feel that way, there are more who feel the opposite.”

2. Complaint: Ronald McDonald is an evil clown.

McDonald’s response: “He is a force for good,” says McD’s CEO, Jim Skinner.

3. Complaint: Too many damn clowns running around.

McDonald’s response: “There’s only one Ronald,” McDonald’s chief creative officer Marlena Peleo-Lazar said in response to several questions about how many actors portray the smiling clown.

4. Complaint: He is hurting a brand image that is trying to be more adult … like Starbucks.

McDonald’s response: He is the brand image. “It would be almost as if the Geico gecko disappeared, or the Aflac duck,” says one marketing strategist. God forbid.

5. Complaint: Ronald encourages childhood obesity.

McDonald’s response: Around 2004, McDonald’s christened Ronald as a “balanced, active lifestyles ambassador,” and stuck him in commercials where he trained for the Olympics. He got workout clothes. He got a tuxedo. He moved from McDonaldLand into the real world. 

You know who can also move into the real world after being trapped in a fantasy land? Freddy Krueger.

It’s actually in CAI’s favor to have a scary mascot act as a deterrent for children trying to buy fries. It should be thanking McDonald’s for keeping such a creepy figure right in front of the golden arches.

But Heffernan sees culture war!

While foodies look back and see the 1950s as the marshmallow-riddled dark ages of American culture, techies see a radiant renaissance. Not only could you get frozen spinach and canned chicken stock at the supermarket, but the first commercial computer appeared. The FORTRAN programming language and artificial intelligence were developed. IBM produced the first dot-matrix printer. To a techie, who cares if some ’50s housewives opted to skip the tedium and carpal-tunnel woes of flour-sifting by using yummy Betty Crocker cake mixes? The major turn in postwar American culture was that computers were invented.

The argument, such as it is, seems to be that techies have no problem with labor-saving shortcuts — microwaved bacon! — while foodies demand that every meal be a five-course extravanganza freshly prepared from scratch from ingredients grown in your own backyard. I say “seems to be” because Heffernan does a very poor job of defining the term “foodie.”

“Foodies complain about Twitter while they make emu-egg cassoulet with creme fraiche,” she writes, and are driven “crazy” by “invocations of efficiency and convenience.”

The concept of convenience in food preparation is steeply at odds with the idea that all food is sacramental, and eating expensive, rich foods is a devotional act that is somehow also politically progressive.

I would like to believe that Heffernan is purposely trying to be jaw-droppingly provocative here by overstating her argument to get a rise out of knee-jerking malcontents like myself. Because the alternative — that she actually intends what she says in that paragraph to represent something even vaguely akin to reality — is just too depressing. Unfortunately, previous experience with Heffernan — such as her notorious declaration almost exactly a year ago that “white flight” to the iPhone and iPad were causing the (unlamented) “death of the Open Web” — suggests that we have to take her at face value.

Sure, there is an annoying subset of “foodies” who fetishize the gourmet experience and don’t fully appreciate the time constraints that limit what a working parent can put on the table for the kids (or the whopping per-pound cost of fresh salmon). But there’s a larger context that Heffernan doesn’t even bother to wave her hands at — the ecological and physiological consequences of a food industry that has taken efficiency and convenience far, far beyond the land of useful tradeoffs out into a dark realm of outright unhealthy dysfunction. Maybe Heffernan doesn’t think there’s a connection between rising levels of obesity and the kinds of foods most Americans eat today, or that monoculture corn and soybean production are an ongoing ecological disaster, but if you’re going to imagine a great cultural clash between “foodies” and “techies” then maybe, just maybe, you should strive to fairly represent the issues that are actually at the heart of meaningful critiques of the status quo.

But even more ridiculous than Heffernan’s caricature of “foodies” is the idea that the class of “techies” somehow stand in opposition to the class of people who regard the question of what to eat with some level of seriousness. Speaking as someone whose mother was taking a class in FORTRAN while pregnant with her son, and yet still happens to prefer wild-caught Pacific King salmon to farmed Chilean factory fish, I feel fully overqualified to say fiddlesticks! There is absolutely no contradiction between the premise that advances in technology can improve our life and that we could stand to pay more attention to where our food comes from and how it is “made.” Call me crazy, but I believe in rural electrification, washing machines and grass-fed beef. And indeed, the connections between the ideologies of technological liberation and the “foodie” movement” are deeper than one might immediately imagine.

I’m guessing that Heffernan may not have read her New York Times’ colleague John Markoff’s fascinating tale of how hippie values intersected with technological innovation, “What the Dormouse Said: How the Sixties Counterculture Shaped the Personal Computer Industry.” Because if she had, she’d know that the same impulses that inspire the Michael Pollans and Eric Schlossers of the world to reimagine our food system — the same passion that finds nirvana in an heirloom tomato — was also present in the hearts and minds of the visionaries who saw the personal computer and Internet as tools for human enlightenment.

Some of those hippies became Silicon Valley moguls, while some started organic farms in Sonoma County — but to this day, those value systems still merge. Since when do foodies complain about Twitter? The foodies I know are swapping recipes in a world of food blogs that offers more would-be cooks more access to information about ingredients, cooking techniques, and quick 20-minutes-of-prep dinner meals than has ever before been possible in the history of humanity on this planet. The foodies I know can use the Web to tweak the contents of the farm box full of fresh vegetables and fruits that is delivered to their front door every week! The foodies I know are quick to head to Twitter to spread the news of the latest delicious recipe or stupid column.

The foodies I know believe in progress. They believe that we can do better, that our children can grow up healthier, our environmental impact can be more sustainable, and our diets can be less controlled by the chemists who work for giant agribusiness multinationals. And they know that the communication technologies of today are awesome tools to help achieve those goals.

All hail the techie-foodie harmonic convergence! Maybe you don’t like broccoli. But I guarantee you that a little elbow grease applied to your iPhone will usher you into a magical world of broccoli wonder. It’s easy. Try it. You might like it.