Every year on my birthday I indulge in two Burger King Whoppers (one for each nipple).

My favorite fast food.

Normally, I am a pescatarian. I used to be entirely vegetarian, but I like salmon too much. Also, I have decided to become a fisherman. Standing in a stream in waders, cold water rushing centimeters below my testicles while wearing a funny hat: that’s the life for me.

There are no Burger Kings as far as the eye can see, though. I do know of a little store where I can get me some bacon. Maybe I should do that: two pounds of bacon (one for each nipple). I will fry it up under the vast sky, my rifle nearby to ward off bears.

Ode to Bacon

If it wouldn’t kill me, I’d eat it all the time. As a mostly-vegetarian, I fail utterly in the face of bacon.

I would eat it for breakfast, lunch, supper, and midnight snack. I would sprinkle bacon bits on top of my ice cream. I would dip it in mayo and wash it down with lukewarm, liquidified lard. I would rub bacon fat all over my body, especially my nipples, and dance naked in the moonlight, chanting to the old gods. I would wrap it around my shaft, like filet mignon, and run screaming through the mall, terrifying the consumers as they buy shit they don’t need and whine about being poor.

I would have it in a great big pile, inside every single sandwich, and on the side of everything I eat, including bacon. Bacon with a side of bacon topped with bacon.

The most beautiful thing about bacon, though, is that it wants me on everything, too.