It never seemed possible that the day would come when I would say, in all seriousness, that I’ve had too much bacon. The moment it happened an indescribable bleakness shrouded the world, almost as if my last shred of childhood glee escaped from me in a whimper. Or maybe that was just the sound of my arteries groaning.
It never seemed possible that the day would come when I would say, in all seriousness, that I’ve had too much bacon.
The moment it happened an indescribable bleakness shrouded the world, almost as if my last shred of childhood glee escaped from me in a whimper. Or maybe that was just the sound of my arteries groaning.
I first experienced what I can only describe as pork shock when I visited the devoutly heart-clogging restaurant Humdinger. I naively added some bacon to my burger because at the time I still believed you could never have enough.
What came forth from the seemingly innocuous kitchen was a creation of hellish delight. Piled upon a quarter-pound patty was at least its equal weight in bacon, with so many strips that I started to count the number by how many spoonfuls of grease covered my plate.
I wolfed down the first third of the burger and munched my way through the second third. As I finally nibbled slowly at the last portion, I looked up in bewildered wonder and declared that, for the first time in my life, I had eaten too much bacon.
Since that fateful, greasy day, I’ve been plagued with a heightened awareness of all the pig flesh that surrounds me. Our love of bacon has increased to epic proportions: It’s more than just food; it’s a consumerist cash cow.
This reality became especially pronounced the day I discovered the existence of bacon lube. As an uncontrollably imaginative person, the mere mention of “bacon” and “lube” in the same sentence had my mind reeling with horrible images. These ranged from slimy pork juices drenching my bedsheets to bacon-wrapped—well, you catch my drift.
Of course, piggie lubricant is never complete without some similarly flavored condoms.
Imagine how delighted your partner will be when you sensually drizzle smelly lube on her body and then slip on a rubber with the sweet taste of pig flesh. The point at which we need pork-flavored condoms is the point at which we might as well go back to old-school pig-membrane condoms. After all, if the salty taste of meat in your mouth is crucial for your sexual pleasure, you might as well go all natural.
If you somehow still didn’t get enough bacon under the sheets, you can continue your bacon binge with some bacon lip balm. There’s nothing quite like leaping into the arms of a loved one, gazing deeply into his eyes and planting a salty, pig-flavored kiss right on his mouth.
Even more disturbing than our nation’s ever-increasing meat fetish is the rise of products like bacon-decorated coffins. Whether it’s a testament to how quirky you were in life or an actual obsession that literally follows you to the grave, being buried inside a bacon-bedecked casket seems shockingly bizarre.
Of course, it could be an entirely appropriate resting place for those who lost their personal battle against bacon. It could be a sort of beautiful irony to be buried inside a box adorned with the food that killed you. But, then again, it’s more likely to be completely pathetic.
You can drink away these somber thoughts with bacon-flavored vodka, though it’s potentially the worst product to ever come out of our societal fascination with fatty slices of dead animal carcass.
If you’ve never tried it and are thinking to yourself that perhaps it would mix well in a Bloody Mary, or wouldn’t be too terrible to drink in a quick shot, think again. There are few levels of depravity lower than bacon vodka, and it’s basically my legal duty to advise anyone thinking of purchasing it to spend their time doing something more enjoyable, like eating real bacon or drinking real vodka.
Whether you’re vegan or an incorrigible omnivore like myself, bacon has become a part of your daily life. There are bacon-flavored flosses, bacon-scented sunscreen and even bacon-flavored envelopes for those who can’t make it through an afternoon at work without the flavor of hot meat in their mouths.
The bottom line is that there’s entirely too much bacon out there, and no amount of shameful looks from Ron Swanson will make me think otherwise.