For unknown reasons, my wife insists on bringing this illicit substance into our home. Worse, she will sometimes tell me she has “made bacon,” only to have me discover, once I’ve skipped happily into the kitchen with joyous anticipation, that she has not made bacon at all. She has made turkey bacon. Which is not bacon. This is like telling me you’ve made chocolate chip cookies, but instead of giving me a cookie you kick me in the shin and set me on fire.
Let’s be clear: you cannot cut something into thin strips and call it bacon any more than I can vomit into a waffle cone and call it strawberry ice cream. Bacon is bacon. It is perfect and beautiful and God loves it just as it is. Turkey bacon, on the other hand, is not bacon. It is sad and strange and it tastes like Band Aids.
For that matter, let it be said that whole wheat pasta is not pasta. It is soggy, shredded construction paper. And multi-grain bread with seeds and sticks embedded inside it is not bread. It’s not even food. It tastes and looks like something you should bury in your garden or feed to your hamster.
Have we not suffered enough, my fellow citizens? Why must we inflict these outrages on ourselves and our loved ones? Enough, I say. Let our bacon be bacon, our pasta be pasta, and our bread be bread. Let all things be as they are meant to be. Amen. And God bless America.