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there i was….laying in bed, i could smell the coffee, and hear the bacon crackling, but i knew immediately that i was going to fall back asleep.
The rule was simple: don’t become attached to food animals—so Sophie the milk goat, Thomas Jefferson, the adopted orphan baby deer, Thumper the stud rabbit and Ocho, the calf born on 8/8 were all safe—the same could not be said of the goat named 4th of July BBQ, the steer named Ribeye, the piglet named Bacon and the innumerable rabbits named Hossenpfeffer.
As the state’s leading bacon expert, Carl was called upon to testify at least once a week, earning him a comfortable living, with the exception of whenever he ran or tried to touch his toes.
Thanks largely to Carl B.‘s expert bacon testimony, my friend Schuster says he better understands the acceptable consumption limits of pork, but even more importantly, he now knows how to successfully argue a temporary insanity case involving the murder of anyone who takes the last slice of bacon.
It’s a little-known fact that bacon is in fact good for you, supplying vitamin p (for “phat”), a nutrient that goes straight to the ass.
I long for the day when no one gave a shit about trans fat and the breakfast table was a joyful place ladened with bacon, sausage and omelets filled to bursting with cheese and other artery clogging goodies…oh yeah…let’s not forget the crispy hash browns.
The microwave in my office has a button labeled ‘bacon’, which is exactly why I’m better than everyone else.
I was thinking Damn, I’m hungry and would kill for a Bacon-Lettuce-Tomato sandwich, but when the fridge yielded up a smoked-turkey (last of the Thanksgiving leftovers) with homemade cranberry sauce sandwich, I decided to leave murder for another day.
Down at the local shockingly good taco stand a new kind of meat appeared on the menu next to cabeza and lengua, “buche,” which my dictionary translates as “button, nub, knob.”
Heaven seems to hate the pig, but I can never consider eternity without bacon to be paradise.
[subject][verb]Bacon Cake; that is all.
Forgetting his passion for bacon, Peter befriended the little lost pig.
Before answering the door, Peter hid the secret recipe for purple under Sir Reginald Bacon’s hat, knowing that no one in their right mind would ever think of searching there.
They say that when Sir Reginald Bacon heard the news that the HMS Dreadnought would be placed in the command of his longtime rival, The Lord Fisher of Kilverstone, that he reached under his hat and drew forth the secret recipe for purple, shook it violently towards the heavens and, in a manner embarrassing to even the crustiest of seamen present, cursed the good name of Lord Nelson.
Every Friday during lent the Young Men’s Catholic Association of Bacon Lovers gathered at the local grocery store’s small bathroom around a decrepit hand dryer (which had what appeared to be poo caked onto the side) to push the holiest of small metal buttons, and receive what they all most desired.
Forget the chicken and the egg, the real Biblical enigma is how God could create pigs from bacon.
I understand that this is me walking into the jungle and punching a jaguar in the face, while covered in fresh cutlets, legs all but completely bound, forcing me to hop wherever I go, but that having been said: bacon is, actually, kind of icky.
“It does no one any good if she looks like a strip of crisp bacon.”
It was a great plan, but the gang just hadn’t accounted for the appearance of the cops and their Bacon Gun, foiling all their well planned machinegun sausage chain tactics.
If I found a piece of bacon floating in outer space, would it be safe to eat?
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