Bacon is the new Chuck Norris

A few years ago, there was a huge insurgence of Chuck Norris Jokes

Stuff like: One Chuck Norris tear could cure cancer. Too bad Chuck Norris doesn’t cry. And Chuck Norris doesn’t do push ups, he pushed the world down.

Lately, I’ve noticed that there’s a new fad.

It’s bacon.

Bacon has become somewhat of a status symbol. I see posts on my Facebook regularly.

“MMMM. Bacon”

“I want Bacon.”

“Bacon is the fruit of the Gods” or, if you’re trying to lose weight

“Bacon is the fruit of the Devil.”

“It’s another thick cut bacon Sundaaaaaayyyy!”

“This meal would be better if it had bacon with it.”

I think I’ve figured out why bacon is the current “it” food. In our body conscious world, where we’re all supposed to look 25 until we die and fit into clothes made for teenagers bacon is like a food rebellion. People who eat bacon, especially those of us who do so in large amounts, are thumbing our noses at health food. We’re letting the world know that we will eat what tastes good no matter the consequence.

Then there is the practical side of bacon. It’s perfect, it can be used in any dish to make it better. I work in a restaurant where we call bacon pancetta, but it’s still bacon and it shows up in pasta and wrapped around shrimp. It confuses me when people ask that it be left out. Who doesn’t love bacon?

Bacon can be eaten at any time of day or night. Fry your bacon in a pan and then use the grease to fry a couple eggs and you have a perfect breakfast. Have bacon on your salad for lunch if you’re feeling the need for something green. A bacon sandwich with a side of bacon for dinner is the definition of romance. Chocolate covered or candied bacon for desert. At the bar in the evening, go ahead and order a bacon infused vodka on the rocks. And when you are driving home and the vodka has made you hungry don’t be afraid to order the Baconator at Burger King.

I almost always have some bacon in my fridge, just incase I feel the need.

I have a friend who admits that the only meats she purchases are bacon and salami.

I fell in love because of bacon.

Last night, I knew bacon had infiltrated my life completely. I made a bacon joke.

Very Overweight Man (VOM): “How’s the Minestrone?”

Me: “Good?”

VOM: “You don’t sound so sure.

Me: “Truth is I don’t really like cooked vegetables. And Minestrone is like a big bowl of veggies. So it’s not my favorite.”

VOM: “I don’t really like vegetables either. But I’m trying to watch my weight” He says as he pats his bulbous belly.

Me: “I get that. I watch my weight too. Only I do it with Bacon.”

To the Gym Rats

Dear sweaty gym going guy,

It’s been a long time since I saw you last. Months in fact. I had almost forgotten all about you. Pushed you from my mind, the way I’m always trying to forget clowns and bigheaded mascots.

But today I decided it was time to address the looseness I’ve been feeling on the underside of my arms and the fact that I felt my butt jiggle just the slightest bit while running up the stairs the other night. I didn’t like it. Which brought me to the gym.

I know there are some women who go to the gym in the hopes of finding themselves a boyfriend. I can point her out to you. She’s on the elliptical machine wearing tiny bike shorts, and a sports bra. Her long blond ponytail is swinging in what I’m sure is perfect rhythm to the Britney/Justin/Beyonce mix being piped into her ears from her hot pink iPod. She’s drinking Fiji water, and somehow manages never to break a sweat.

On the other hand, there's me. My sweatpants are too big, and splattered with green, orange and purple paint. I have a hard time keeping them up under the weight of my brick like fake pod, which is outdated but since it still works I stick with it. I wear a sports bra, yes, but it stays hidden under any number of hideous and loose fitting t-shirts I choose to wear to the gym. And I sweat. A lot. My face turns a lovely shade of purple during my forty-five minutes on the stationary bike I ride, because the elliptical machine requires a kind of coordination I’ll never have.

When I move on to lifting weights I don’t want your help. Machines don’t require a spotter, and I don’t need advice on proper form thank you.

And if my t-shirt happens to creep up while reaching my arms over my head and you catch a glimpse of the tattoo on my right hip it is not an invitation to reach out and touch it. Your hands are sweaty, and have been touching equipment that has been sweated on by countless other people today. Yuck.

I know I should be flattered that an in shape guy such as yourself would be interested in me. And that anyone could possibly find me attractive after an hour long workout is a miracle. However I’m far more likely to be interested in a man with a beer gut and a sick sense of humor than a man with a six pack who clearly cares more about shaving than I do.

So, sweaty gym going guy, go flirt with Barbie and leave me alone.

The tooth stays.

Everyone has a calling in life.

Some people want to be builders. Others want to be teachers, or lawyers, or gourmet chefs. Moms and Dads, Rabbi’s, Priests, and Nuns. Hairdressers, actors, web designers and radio DJs.

The more daring among us may claim to be painters, sculptors, writers or musicians.

I can understand all of these callings.

I don’t understand those who are called to Dentists.

Describe what a dentist does and it sounds like this:

Scrape plaque, tartar and whatever other kind of build up from the surface of peoples teeth.

Use my sharp metal poker to measure the depth of a humans gums. Fondle a tongue to check for mouth cancer.

Polish teeth with gritty goo and whirring rubber thing.

These are the more pleasant things a Dentist can do.

Friday, a tooth on the bottom right hand side of my mouth hurt a little. I thought it was caused by one too many sour patch kids and I vowed to take a week off.

Saturday morning, the tooth hurt a little more and included the area around the tooth and heading up my jaw line. I took some Advil, used a little Ambesol. Achy, but bearable.

Saturday night, no more pain thanks to Vodka.

Sunday morning, woke up in tears. The Vodka had worn off, and the entire right side of my face was throbbing. Advil, Excedrin, Ambesol and a bag of frozen peas placed on my face managed to dull the pain ever so slightly. I slept Sunday night very peacefully, on the frozen bag of peas (which Vedder conveniently gnawed open at some point in the night, apparently wanting a snack) after drinking half a bottle of Nyquil.

Monday at eight am I called the Dentist. I was being fit in at 10:40.

The pain has now been unbearable for more than 24 hours.

First thing Dr. Paininflictor says to me: So, do you want to keep this tooth?

Well, Dr. Paininflictor, this tooth has been hurting for three days, the last one being so horrible I considered pulling it out myself. Then I reconsidered.

See, I’m a single, thirty-year-old college student with bills up to my eyeballs who enjoys cheesy eighties music, Stephen King books, and playing scrabble. I have a passion for writing, like people who can talk about nothing for hours, and sometimes I crave Buffalo wings. I wear a pink snuggie, and I let my dog sleep on the pillows next to me.

That’s more than enough to keep me single for the rest of my life.

Let’s not add a gaping hole in my smile.