All of these charming little protests against the establishment currently sweeping the colonies (sorry, old habit) — the United States — have caught my eye. So many of the unemployed, unemployable and underwashed are finally focusing their anger and indignation in the right direction. It’s about time. You humans certainly are willing to put up with a great deal before you finally get your hackles up and fight back.

I’m somewhat of an expert in that regard.

You can’t even imagine the effort sometimes required to coax out even a little bit of a struggle from one of my unlucky dinner dates. I’ve ruined many a manicure on some dullard praying to whatever god they think will swoop in like superman and rescue them before I can finally claw my way into their screams.

Some of the Wall Street types drawing the ire of the Occupiers give even Vampires a bad name. At least we have the common decency to do our killing up close and personal. They prefer hiding behind a system that allows them to slowly bleed millions of people dry — death by a thousand financial paper cuts — without so much as chipping a tooth on a neck bone.

And we actually need your blood to survive. True, we greatly enjoy the process of obtaining it but you don’t see us running around trying to stockpile our crimson treasure. Sadly, it won’t keep for long or else we just might. Investment bankers have no such concerns; they have lost all sense of perspective as they try to collect vast fortunes they couldn’t even spend in a pathetically short human lifetime while their victims trudge to and fro, back forth to jobs they despise and cast envious looks at their overlords — fat, happy and crouched in the lap of luxury.

Not that I have anything against luxury. Quite the opposite. I just feel a certain kinship toward those willing to get their hands dirty.

The Occupy protesters certainly are willing to get their hands, and everything else, dirty. On a recent balmy night, I strolled through the nearby Occupy camp. So many charming little hippies cheek to jowl in their shabby little tents. This may come as a surprise to them, but the patchouli is not fooling anyone. It doesn’t hide the fact that you are smoking your marijuana, and it certainly does not compensate for your lack of general hygiene. You just smell like body odor and patchouli.

I like a little bit of stink when I feed. You’re like a delicious bleu cheese — ripe, piquant and sharp — when you don’t bathe. Something about that moldy, earthy taste really sets off the flavor of the blood. But not with patchouli drizzled on you. That foul oil is cloying and disgusting, like eating dusty incense and manure. I’m sure the protesters with their limited knowledge of history don’t know this, but patchouli was an ancient ward against Vampires. The scent was deemed so unpleasing, people thought we’d likely leave them in their cottages unscathed. They were mostly right.

It’s enough make me kill you for spite. But then, I have slightly more refined morals than, say, a stock broker.

Despite the patchouli, I do love the taste of the righteously indignant. I think I’ll make my way down to their squalid little tent city tonight and see if I can find some charming little hippie that doesn’t reek of the stuff. Don’t be surprised to see a well-dressed woman wandering about your camp tonight. It won’t be a reporter or someone from the mayor’s office, it will just be me with the midnight munchies and a hankering for bleu cheese seeking out the ripest, rankest Occupier and I can find.

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