As I stood in line today, waiting to order my standard Turkey-and-Swiss-and-dab-of-Mayo-on-Wheat at the local deli, a voice rumbled in my head. Guttural, powerful, demanding, it said:
I want bacon.
I hunger for bacon.
I need bacon.
Most people would be alarmed to hear voices; I knew it was just my Stomach hijacking my Imagination and speaking through it (kind of like the alien with Brent Spiner in Independence Day). “Look, fatboy,” I sighed (internally, of course, “we’re not having bacon today. I gave you Ron of Japan last weekend and that egg sauce made my heart hurt.”
Despite continued growling, threatened ulcers, and eventual pleading as we walked away, I never did succumb to that urge, even with the gorgeous strips of bacon visible just beyond the deli counter. As if to tempt me, they’d already prepared a set of Turkey Clubs, calling to my stomach and almost taking over my brain, but fortunately I managed to distract myself with fruit salad and slipped out the door.
Still, my stomach rumbles, even now moaning bacon! I would take pity, but that way fatness lies. I have committed to a higher road.
Besides, everyone knows bacon is totally okay as long as you eat it for breakfast.
-Jim may eventually lose it and cook something like this