Bacon

Bacon


Tiny morsels of delectable delight gleaming and perfect in a not so perfect way. They look almost morbid or possessed by death himself when they lay on my salad. The little pieces of death stare at me. I stare at the little pieces of death. They do not speak or even show emotion but just sit waiting to be crunched and mowed down by my deep crevacious cavern of incisors and molars. But wait, did one just move? No. My mind is playing tricks on me. I see the bacon. The bacon sees me. But it does not respond to the commands I give it.
“Git in my belly,” I exclaim. They proceed to ignore me again. At this point I am growing very angry and they do not seem to even listen to me.
“Now that’s pretty rude,” I try to calmly explain. As I begin to question whether or not the bacon actually speaks English the little pieces elevate thems...