Made myself bacon and eggs for breakfast this morning. It was warm and quiet, I had a cold glass of OJ, and I was enjoying the start of my day.
It was so quiet, in fact, that I could hear sounds coming from my sizzling bacon that I had never heard before. A kind of cry, almost a plaintive squealing, if I could let my imagination go that far. I flipped a rasher and pressed it down with my fork, and I was met with the high-pitched oink of porcine distress. It was at this point that a bubble of fat snapped from the pan and struck me just above my left eye.
It was almost enough to put me off meat entirely.
[Ed’s Note: It would take much, much, much more than this to put Josh off of meat, and it would take the physical incarnation of a demon swine directly in his fry pan to put him off bacon.
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