Okay, I do not understand people's fascination with bacon. I love dead animal flesh as much as the next guy but I don't see the point of bacon. It's greasy and crunchy and dry and more fat than meat. And yet, it's everywhere. Not a damn day goes by that I don't see some reference to how much people love freakin' bacon! MEAT SHOULD NOT BE CRUNCHY, PEOPLE!!!!
Now Canadian bacon, nice thick pieces of meat that is tender.... mmmmm... yeah. But that crap you people love slapping on sandwiches and can't seem to get through breakfast without eating... no... no, man... that is just ridiculous.
I'm putting bacon on the list of "Things I don't understand it's popularity".... right above Paris Hilton and right below mySpace. (F*$% mySpace)
And now, another excerpt from the "Stuff" archives:
"Gosh," I said, "I'm really very silly tonight. Perhaps I should be so
bold and say that I am a downright loony."
I pondered this realization for a moment and decided it would be best if
I kept this startling revelation to myself. I had just decided that I
should, in fact, proceed with giving myself the Rorshach test using Miss
Wendell's notebook paper and the small, single serve ketchup containers
I had accumulated in my pocket from various trips to fast food
restaurants, when, all of a sudden, thanks to this incredibly long
run-on sentence that is quickly losing all semblance of a coherent
thought and is, in fact, I believe, as far from being proper in the idea
that this relates to exemplary English form as could possibly be, not
that it matters, due to my lack of vision and insufficient training in
the art of prose. This being said, my boss, Larry, approached me from
beyond the far table.
"Ghfqpowihrt," he said calmly, "Why is it that whenever I look in you
direction, you never seem to be working, but rather you do appear to be
not working. The scientific term for this is, I believe, 'goofing off'."
"Well, sir," I quickly responded, not wanting to appear as distracted
and uninterested by this blathering buffoon as I actually was, "I was
actually trying to use my subconscious to paranormally do the work for
me, thus cutting down on my personal fatigue and saving the company
money, in that I would be able to work much longer hours and not be
tired, which, I'm sure you can see, would be very beneficial to the
company and therefore, would definitely be an idea that is worth
pursuing, I think you would agree." Truthfully, I had done nothing of
the sort. This rhetoric was simply some nonsense I had seen on a
televison program the night before. But I absolutely could not tell my
boss that I was sitting there trying to decipher my own psychological
makeup using notebook paper and ketchup packets. That would be absurd. My
only hope would be that my boss would actually buy this ridiculous story
and leave me alone so that I might continue my self analysis.
"Hmmmmm," he said, "Do you realize, that you are the only person I know
who regularly talks in run-on sentences that stray from the subject
until the are just colossal jumbles of meaningless combinations of
words?"
"No sir. I did not realize that," I said.
"Aaaaaaaarrrrggghhhh!" exclaimed my superior, "You make my head hurt!"
With that he turned and walked back towards his office, beyond the far
table, where Miss Jane began that ill-fated affair with Mr. Jennings
from engineering. They never should have used that table.
