I just got home and started cooking up bacon.  This is how come bacon is all right:

First of all, bacon is fucking awesome.  It tastes good, it smells good, you can pretty much put it on anything and make anything better.  Find something else.  Seriously, find something else.  Get up, go look in your fridge or your freezer, go look in your cabinets both high and low.  You came back with nothing, didn’t you?

Say you looked in your spice rack.  Just say.  What did you come back with?  Did you come back with cumin?  Did you come back with the dill spice?  What would you put that on?  A sandwich?  Maybe a soup?  Will that spice suffice as a side?  Will that spice knock off a small plate?  Can it knock off a big plate?  Of course it can’t.  It’s just a spice.

Potatoes.  We all agree potatoes have their place.  Their place is placed squarely in our hearts.  And on our big plates.  Big potatoes.  Baked potatoes.  Rushed potatoes.  Scalloped potatoes.  Potatoes.  Hash browns.  Thing is though, they’re all bland.  They are all boring as fuck.  Potatoes are earth apples and nothing but.  Nothing more but nothing else either.  I love them.  They’re delicious and I may have said before that I “lust after potatoes”.  “I’ll eat potatoes however you cook them.”  “Bake them.”  Cook them.”  “Re-heat them.”  If potatoes got left in a dark room on the top floor of a castle, and the eyes of that potato just grew and grew and grew down out of the window, down to the ground where I was standing?  Make no mistake, I would Rapunzel my ass up with my left pocket full of green onions and my right full of olive’s oil and I would wish I’d have remembered to bring a knife and a fork.  I would climb that vine and after I asked, you all right?  I would say You got any bacon?  Because

Bacon is delicious.  Bacon smells good.  Bacon looks good, too.  I grew up in a society where thin is in.  Bacon starts fat then gets skinny.  That shit is in my head.  I’m like What the fuck am I cooking?  Am I going to eat this?  This shit is fat.      But bacon gets skinny.  It shrivels up.  It’s pretty well a weight loss commercial.  Cigarettes you can eat, sort of thing.  This whole smoking thing fucks me off a bit, actually.  I’ll go outside, right?  I’ll go outside.  That’s fine.  I’ll do a tonne of shit for cigarettes.  But I’ll misspell cigarettes.  I’ll never misspell bacon.

Second of all, bacon is the b plan.  The B plan, even.  I’m in serious belief that this whole diet thing right now is a fad.  Fat people are fat because they are stupid.  They’re either stupid or rich.  They’re worried.  Fat is just a mindset.  Bulking up is good.  We all need fat reserves.  I hate being too fat, but I hate being cold even more.  When it gets cold, I don’t mind a bit of chub.  Don’t complain.  That’s just how it is.  But where am I going to get that chub?  Glad you asked.

You can bake bacon.  You can fry bacon.  You can throw bacon in a god damn microwave and that shit will work too.  But will you ever reheat bacon, mr. potatohead?  Of course you won’t.  Because there is none left.  I bet you animals that don’t make bacon are yelled at by the animals that do make bacon only because the animal making bacon is tired of being killed and eaten.  And never left over.  And finished.  Until it is gone.  Ironically, the animal that makes bacon has the likeliest chance of being forgotten because everyone is tired of this thing beaking off about how bad it’s got it.  Oh, everyone wants to eat me.  Oh.

I fucking beaked off big time two days ago.  I was cooking ribs.  I got these ribs for a fucking juicy deal at the local grocery store and I didn’t even marinate these sons.  I just threw them on the barby.  I cooked the one side for a good forty five, flipped them, then thirty minutes later I guessed they were done.  I cut them in half to see how they cooked, took some with me, inside, to see how they tasted, and god damn if I didn’t come back to the biggest grease fire humanity has ever seen.  The rest of the ribs were fucked.  Charred.  Charred like charred.  I got the ribs off but the barbecue kept on fire and burning and the whole time I was looking at this thing, trying to make my teeth keep cool around the shitty ass ribs I had burned the fuck out of.  I just kept thinking Never happens with bacon, does it.

And say it did?  Say it did happen with bacon?  What would happen?  You’d eat that shit.  You wouldn’t even eat that shit.  First you would be like Are you okay bacon?  Do you know where you are?  My name is Brad and I’m a friend of yours.  It might take you a minute to adjust to your new life, but I’m going to take care of you.  I’m your new family.

Bacon is all right.

Oh and also, when you get fake bacon, it’s always fake.  You never have real fake bacon.  You can imitate anything except for bacon.  Bacon and coffee.

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