It’s been about a year since my last installment about the proper and improper usage of bacon and its glorious image, so I felt like it was time for me to take another run at it. Plus it’ll help my ass get out of my non-writing funk, which is a deep enough funk to even impress George Clinton. Yeah.
I already laid out my thoughts on good and bad bacon, so this time I’m just going to show you bacon, and tell you – yes, I will tell you whether it’s a great implement or something from Satan’s Land’s End knapsack.
(Note: I don’t know if Satan shops at Land’s End. But I mean, why wouldn’t he? It’s a fine retail establishment, and there are some good deals there, especially for outerwear, and we all know how nippy it gets in North Hell.
Actually, I bet Satan shops at Aeropostale, which would make sense because I hate that place. But I digress.)
Let’s evaluate the good and the bad of baconry.
Bacon + hotdogs = [I'm sorry, I'm eating bacon-wrapped hotdogs now and both hands are occupied, baby.]
Bacon + bourbon = drunk and full.
Bacon + shoes = a foot that looks like it went through a furnace.
Bacon + costumes = idiocy. That doesn’t even look like bacon. It looks like the world’s worst Christmas scarf given by blind Aunt Eunice. Twice. And don’t even ask me what that faux fried egg is all about. I hate eggs.
Bacon + perfume = Me following women around Target for reasons unknown to me.
Bacon + cologne = Me following men around Target for reasons unknown and disturbing to me.
Bacon + babies = Awesome. This is always true.
Bacon + coffee = a complete breakfast you can drink. I dislike coffee, and yet I’d drink this daily like it was insulin. And you don’t even drink insulin. THAT’S HOW AWESOME IT IS.
Bacon + toiletries = a bad idea. Bacon breath isn’t as hot as you’d think. Well, it’s as hot as someone who just ate bacon talking directly into your face would be. So…ruminate on that.
Bacon + candles = I’ll be honest…I’m not sure about this. If it truly smells like bacon, then this is the best olfactory experience I could ever hope for. If it smells like a burning Goodyear radial, I will want to punch a llama.
Bacon + batter + deep frying = [gurgling sounds of pure, unadulterated joy]
Gaze upon greatness, folks. Stare at it for 20 seconds without blinking; emblazon this image upon your cerebral cortex until it burns in permanently like 1983 Atari Pac-Man on a 13″ black and white TV after 5 straight hours of play. This is battered, deep-friend bacon, and it’s so good that I nearly elbowed the elderly in the chest to get some at the State Fair. On 2 separate occasions. It’s so damn good, I saw visions when I ate it. It was like the Pink Elephants on Parade scene from “Dumbo”. Time slowed. My mind expanded. Taylor Swift was, for the briefest of moments, pleasant to listen to. It was Xanadu on a bun made of bliss and Paradise, marinated in awesome.
You know, I’m just gonna end this here – it won’t get any better than this, and if I find one more image of the bacon bra I think I’m gonna go all Gary Busey on someone.