I went to Comet last night with some friends to celebrate my birthday. Nothing fancy—a nice, low key evening with a few people who are close to me. I fathomed not the berth of bacon that would befall mine bowels.
As my gullet quivered with greasy goodness, my propensity for things quite the opposite began to jingle-jangle: the awkward salvation army collector at the exit of my mind’s Downer Sendik’s. It screamed, in so many rings: ABORT MISSION. REPEAT: ABORT MISSION. DO NOT EAT. DROP THE BACON. DROP IT NOW. ABORT OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.
And like most people, I ignored the bells, continuing instead to stuff copious amounts of hog belly into my own hog belly. Despite following the pound or more of bacon that I ate with an amazing vegan meatloaf, several beers and other drinks, I can still only say:
Bacon in, bacon out. Happy birthday, idiot.