Call me Yamhill

Mother A

The Frickin' Humanity

What sort of God-forsaken society have we become that we are officially too lazy to fry bacon? I mean sure, who hasn't had a bad taste left in their mouth over a nude bacon-frying session that got out of hand? But after the blisters scab over and you explain to your girlfriend the sores have nothing at all to do with that big-haired, saggy-assed truck stop whore you banged in the men's room of a Stuckey's on the way to Panama City for spring break in college, you live, you learn, you move on, and you wear your snowmobile suit while frying those oh-so-delicious strips of pork fats. I keep my grease-spattered snow suit hanging on a nail in the side of the refrigerator, right next to my oven mitts and dish washing helmet.

Is our everyday life becoming too convenient? Should we want for the sweet, salty, smokiness of bacon, now all we need do is reach in the cupboard for the bacon pocket and bacon up. But at what price? Will our national character suffer as a result? When our ancestors wanted bacon did they hitch up the horses and ski to the general store for a pull out of the bacon barrel? No, they EARNED their bacon, by luring the cow into the barn, milking out the raw bacon juice, constantly pumping the bacon churn for a fortnight at minimum before weaving the delicious, meaty treat on the bacon loom and frying it at temperatures so hot the spitting grease would burn children in the orphanage two counties over.

Now that was the sort of gumption that made this country great. But now, ready-made bacon threatens this great land, inducing lazy bastards to lounge around under clear stretch wrap, acting like Swanson's TV dinner meats, snacking on gravel all the live-long day. Do us all a favor and thoroughly reject this abomination before the almighty Kenny Rogers. (The chicken guy, not the angry pitcher.)

Oh, and if you think my tales are idiotic, take a gander at the back story on "Biscuit Boy," the chimp slinging Dwight Yoakam's Bakersfield Biscuits directly from the bed of his 1944 Chevrolet pickup. Don't fret; truck is clean since Biscuit Boy just hauled a load of ag lime this morning, that's what gives 'em the crunch! Personally, I find they taste a bit of hat, but that's just me.

Another site just given me is http://www.mcphee.com/bigindex/current/11476.html

posted by Yamhill @ 11:36 PM