An open letter to bacon: "Dear Bacon, I love you. I think I've always loved you. I can't remember a time when I didn't crave your greasy, fatty sensuousness.
I love the way your crunchy, salty goodness slides down my throat, and occasionally gets caught there when I haven't fried you enough.
There are times I get angry with you, like when I have to hack you up because I'm choking on your fat, but even then I think "bacon didn't mean to hurt me," and all is forgiven.
When I see you on my plate, next to my dippy eggs, I get so excited my mouth waters in anticipation.
I love you soooo much that I'm willing to overlook the fact that you haven't been good to me. You're full of unhealthy nitrates and you're probably killing me by
clogging up the very arteries I need to survive. But who cares, right? You're my guilty pleasure.
When I see you in the meat case, I find myself compelled stop and fondle your smooth, cool package. I flip you over this way and that way, admiring your meat.
I tell myself that you're no good for me that you'll never love me the way Iove you, but then I hear your siren's song
as I walk through the meat department and you lure me in all over again.
Even when South's neighbor sent me my ex-pet pig Lassie all cured and delicious, I ate her without hesitation,
proving what some people have said about me for years: it doesn't matter how good a friend you are,
if I'm hungry and you're pork or a pork byproduct, I will eat you.
I guess I can't understand then, why you don't love me? What have I done wrong? Yesterday when I ate you,
my gall bladder hurt for hours.(And I'm not feeling so hot right now either.) Why, bacon, why have you forsaken me?"