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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.
My friends delight in sending me links to all manner of bacon things, given my intense and inexplicable love for the Perfect Food Item. For the most part, the links have inventive, interesting applications of bacon manufactured in hundred of different implementations, from clothing to toys to weapons. Yes, I said weapons. But not all out-of-the-box baconing is equal. Listen up folks, for I shall only say this once:
Bacon is not universal, and there are some things that bacon is not suited for. Ever.
I realize that for some of you, this is akin to me saying that the sun is royal blue and that I’m allowing Ben Roethlisberger to host a sorority sleepover, but I feel the need to speak out against some serious atrocities committed in bacon’s good name. I have no doubt that these offenders love bacon, and that they think they’re being clever or cute or inventive, but ultimately, bacon is for one thing and one thing only.
It’s not meant to be worn directly; it’s not meant to be used as decoration, and for damn sure no one should be making OTHER items using bacon as some sort of demented Lego set from a suburb of Hades. And not the nice ‘burbs in North Hades, either. I’m talking about Southeast Hades, down near the courthouse and bailbondsmen, down where the apprentice crackwhores are. The bad section.
It’s food, people. Keep that in mind. Also keep in mind that by no means do I insinuate that it’s forbidden to have bacon-themed items, because some bacon stuff is pretty clever and cool, like the bacon magnet that Elle gave me that I’m still rocking on the back of the minivan. (I saw her last week out in Tucson, by the way, and she’s as crazy as EVAH.) I’m going provide you now with an Illustrated Guide to Proper Baconage so that you don’t make the same mistakes that others have. I’ll sort the items into categories: Nicely Done, Nice Try, and Serioulsy, WTF. The More You Know.
I actually own these. They’re not made of real bacon, they stop the bleeding, and they’re interesting. And they come with a free toy inside. Score.
Kudos to Coke for trying to jump on the baconwagon (like a bacon bandwagon, only more efficient and delicious), but this is just ill-conceived.
A bacon briefcase? Why in the hell would ANYONE ever want or need this? You can’t roll up into a business meeting, pull this out, and expect to be heard over all the snickering. And to make matters worse, it’s not even COOKED bacon. This is like a bad idea that got dipped into another bad idea and then served with coleslaw.
I see absolutely nothing wrong with this. At all.
OK, with the advent of things like coffee ice cream, I suppose I can see why someone would make this. I’d even consider trying it. But…it just doesn’t seem appealing. When you think of cold refreshment, bacon isn’t what jumps into your head. If it does, you’re sicker than I am.
No. Just no. This is wrong on several levels. Begone.
A bacon bowl. You can’t see me right now, but I’m standing and applauding. And typing. This is an excellent idea – a lovely decorative salad bowl that you can eat – and it’s made of BACON. Whoever invented this should get a Nobel Peace Prize for Awesome.
Hmm. I’m actually on the fence about these. On the one hand, they remind me of those baked beans candy I used to eat as a kid – unappealing in concept, but pretty good in my mouth. But on the other hand, it seems to be a misappropriation of bacon – I mean, I doubt there’s even any real bacon in these things, just bacon flavoring. Nobody wants bacon flavoring.
There was no reason at all to create this. None. It defies logic and reason. Yes, I love bacon, and I’m fond of the naked Twister, but never the twain shall meet. Would you really want to be listening to some Barry White, lights down low, applying this substance to….whatever you apply it to, and then potentially have Spot or Rover barreling into the room, eyes crazed, tongue dragging the floor, all because he smells BACON and thinks he’s getting a Beggin’ Strip? No, you really would not. Trust me.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is an apple bacon pie. You may drool at will.
I don’t know about this one, folks. I just don’t know. I sort of want to try it, but I fear the soul-hemorrhaging disappointment if it isn’t any good.
If I ever have the opportunity to meet the marketing person who came up with this abomination, this crime against man and nature, this Thing That Should Not Be, this monstrosity that KFC calls the Double Down (it oughta be called the Double Over or the Double Bypass), I will slap him dead in his mouth. Mark my words. Just look at it. It looks sad to even be in existence. It’s disheveled, broken down, and wanting nothing more than a swift, painless death. Look at it. LOOK AT IT. And then burn your tainted eyeballs.
If you like these, I’ll add more in a future post. This was fun.
Just read the article, and imagine me sitting here, grinning and hugging my knees like a 5 year old who just got every Transformer ever made, ever (including the damn Constructicons, which were impossible to find) on his birthday, with Christmas being the very next day. Take that image, hold it in your mind, attach my brown face to it, and then you’ll slowly approach the feeling I have when I think of sweet, delicious bacony goodness.
I’ll blog more later, I promise. PEACE!
Viva la gente! Viva la raza! Viva la white girl! (That’s a reference to a Gym Class Heroes song, in case you didn’t know. And I know you didn’t know, so don’t act like you did, punk.) It’s good to be here, writing again, spilling forth of my addled brain the over ripened fruits of knowledge that I possess, so that you may sip of its juices and say “This shit’s past its expiration, Holmes.” Yeah, I roll like this, people.
It’s been a busy month or so, so much so that I didn’t even realize how long it’s been since I’ve posted anything. That’s mostly because of my high level of suck, but also because of a residual yet potent low level of supplemental suck that picks up where the main sucknicity leaves off. But also, I’ve been running around, trying to get all my affairs in order in regards to that damn accident, getting a vehicle (or “whip”, for you hoodrats like Elle and Scottsdale Princess), advancing my career, and other amazing things like eating and sleeping and watching “Leverage” on TNT. But first and foremost, let’s get it on about my wreck/car situation.
Firstly, the state of South Carolina can orally cleanse the region between heaven and oblivion in my general taint area. It is utterly ridiculous that it takes THIS LONG to get a vehicle title, especially when we asked so nicely. In SC state government, the word “expedite” is Latin for “I bet this filled-out form would make a great coaster, or maybe even a sweet paper airplane. With landing gear!” Entire scientific studies were thought up, developed, proven, and completed in the amount of time it takes someone in the SC Department of Motor Vehicles to push a much-needed request from the corner of their crumb-infested desk to the inbox of someone who really wanted to be a dancer on Broadway, until they found out that “Fame” was just a good movie and a bad TV show, and all her dreams were dashed like Stacy. After Broken Dreamgirl finally processed our request (for the second time, may I add) and sent us the title, I had almost forgotten that I previously owned a vehicle. Until I remembered that we needed it to get the money from the insurance company. Then it all came back to me like lost dog on a boomerang. (Look, I don’t know where these analogies come from, either. Even I’m looking at the screen like “Really? Dogs on boomerangs? Lay off the Arizona Iced Tea, son. And the Barq’s.”)
With a pocket full of cold hard cash, we set out last weekend to get the vehicle of our dreams: a Dodge Grand Caravan or a Chrysler Town & Country, whichever one would bend us over the gentlest when it comes to making payments on it. I know…I’m pimpin’ beyond words now, and your loins burn for me when thinking of me rockin’ a fly minivan. It’s ok, don’t hold back now. Here’s where I have a major beef with car dealerships: if I call you to set up an appointment to see and test drive a specific “pre-owned” vehicle, do me the supreme favor of CALLING ME if you should so happen to SELL THAT AFOREMENTIONED VEHICLE before my pre-arranged appointment, especially if I’m driving CLEAN ACROSS THE DAMN METROPLEX to come see it! This happened multiple times on Saturday, and it was enough to make me wanna not buy a ride at all, until I remembered I’m exactly one step up from Bill Bixby at the end of every “The Incredible Hulk” episode in the 80s. All I was missing was that sad-ass piano music and a pair of pants that stretch and shrink every time I Hulk out, so as to cover my now-enormous and incredibly green penis. Anyway, we finally found a lower cost van that fit our needs, and this is my new baby:
Ignore the mismatch fence slats in the background. Do you KNOW how much it costs to replace a 6 foot privacy fence? If you do, you’re just nodding your head right now in pure understanding, and for that I thank you. Tangent.
It’s a 2002 Dodge Caravan, minus the Grand. Actually, minus about 4 grand off of what we would’ve paid just to have the word “Grand” appear on the trunk. I’m good with that. Grand or not, this is my new baby, in all her roomy glory. I even have a name for her. Are you ready for this? Are you?
No, you most certainly are not.
Her name…her glorious nomenclature…is…
Vantastic Voyage. I’ll pause while that absorbs in like aloe vera on a curling iron burn.
“Hey, come on, come along, take a ride / There’s a party over here and it ain’t no jive / It’s live, live, all the way live / Don’t even have to walk, you don’t even have to glide / Just slide, slide, slippity slide / And forget about your troubles and your 9 to 5 / And just saaaaaaaaaaaaaaail along (that’s whatcha do, ya just ) saaaaaaaaaaaaaail along!”
And for an extra little kick in the pants, I added some flavor to my new white girl. Check it:
This is Elle’s birfday present to me, prominently and proudly displayed on my rear, so that the whole world knows what I’m down with. I’m down with bacon, people. Bacon is my cause. I am pro-bacon, and I want you to know this. And if you look closely, you can even see a sparkle above the bacon ribbon, as though an angel is saying “Yes…yes, this is glorious and good.” Or it could be the flash from my camera, but either way, it’s significant to me. Ah, my sweet new van; she’s a wooty. I know you can see that she’s an “SE” model, but what you can’t see are the “X” and the “Y” that come right after those letters. Recognize.
Now, I realize that it’s hard to be “cool” or “hip” or “with it” while profilin’ at a stop light in a white late-model minivan with “Support Bacon” on the back, but I gotta say…I pull it off. If you saw me at the corner of Preston Road and Plano Parkway, arm slung across the steering wheel, head tipped back, with some EPMD or Big Daddy Kane pumping out of my system (hey, I love old school rap. Sue me.), you would say to yourself “Now THERE’S a man who radiates confidence and oozes self-assuredness!”
Or you’d say “Damn, he’s not even close to Cool. If Cool was a map of the Earth, he’d be the pin holding the top left corner up.” Either way, I’m rollin’. And that’s all that matters.
Happy Thanksgetting, everyone! I hope everyone travels safely and eats irresponsibly today, because truly, that’s what today’s all about. You may have noticed that I renamed the holiday. I did that to more accurately represent and reflect the real human sentiment of the day, because as fulfilling as it is to genuinely give, we all get a deeper, more animalistic pleasure from getting. But unlike Christmas, where we tend to expect to get material things such as iPods and credit card statements, Thanksgetting is more about the intangible things – hold up.
OK, I was just watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, and the singing float for Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends just got Rickrolled – by the real Rick Astley! Maybe 20% of people watching will even get what happened, but me and DWW just busted out laughing when we saw it. Classic. Oh, and there’s a marching band (Second Time Arounders) that is comprised completely of old people. It’s simultaneously the coolest and saddest thing I’ve seen all week. Now back to my original train of thought. Captain Tangent!
Like I was saying, Thanksgetting is more about the intangible things, such as getting to eat like a pig with a tapeworm, and getting to skip work for no good reason, and getting to watch football with your pants unfastened. It’s for getting sleepy after eating, for getting to shop like a crazed weasel on Black Friday, and getting some seriously sweet deals. It’s also for getting to spend time with family and friends, and to get along with each other. Hence my name change.
It’s also a time to be thankful for the many good things in our lives, such as the aforementioned family and friends, the food, our health, and about a thousand other things that we tend to take for granted throughout the year. But amidst you closing your eyelids and whispering sweet thank yous to whatever deity you worship (I think Buddha is underrepresented, but that’s just me), don’t forget to be thankful for all the little things you have day to day, too. Make sure you’re thankful for:
- That parking space that just opened up as you entered the row
- The last stamp in the book when you thought you were completely out
- Apple juice
- Portable digital music players
- Funky ringtones
- Parents who don’t discuss Vietnam-era injuries in delicate areas
- Cable television
- Satellite television (unless it’s cloudy, or stormy, or if a strong breeze is blowing)
- Bacon (worth mentioning more than once)
- French tips
- $1.79 gas
- “It Takes Two” by Robb Base and DJ E-Z Rock
- Good books with good endings (not YOU, Patricia Cornwell)
- Bass guitars (OK, maybe just me)
- Quiet children who aren’t up to no good
- The movie “300”
- Big booties and boobies
- Country music (so rednecks won’t try to sing rap songs)
- The internet
- Bacon (What? I really like it!)
- Turkey (even though we’re eating ham today)
- The smell of your favorite fried food
- Rain without thunderstorms
- Funny people
- Specifically, people who can make you shoot beverages through your nostrils with laughter
- Seasoned salt
- Gravy (this is for you, Elle)
- Good report cards
- Found money
- Hedgehogs (they’re so damn cute!)
- People who can sing. I mean, really sing
- Movies that end up not sucking, like “Iron Man” (which does not suck)
- Barbie rooms (this is for you, Jana S)
- Satellite radio
- “Ninja Warriors” on G4
- Everyone you love, and who loves you
- Bacon (I’d marry it if it wasn’t for Proposition 8 )
Happy Thanksgetting, everyone!