Friend came up with a particularly exotic challenge
recently, something to really get my tongue wagging. And here’s a picture of
it. That right there is my tongue. Or would be if I was constructed from
reconstituted bits of mushroom shit that some ‘food’ purveyors would like to think
is a decent impersonation of meat. You see, friend is a VEGEMARIAN. The great thing about friend is that she is
wonderful enough for me to overlook this slight character transgression. Of
course, people are allowed to do whatever they like. Within reason. Using the
heads of small children to paint your castle ceiling is probably pushing it, as
would forcing grannies to get their labia pierced, but if someone wants to give
up meat then that’s absolutely fine. But it doesn’t stop me thinking a little
less of them. So really, vegemarians just have to work that extra bit harder.
Because I reserve the opinion that they are in some way demented. Meat is good.
Fact. And me putting the word fact there makes it exactly that. Fact. Not only
does it taste really really great, scrunching around in my mouth, but it is
scientifically proven that eating 8 rashers of proper bacon a day makes your
dick bigger. Fact.
So it was with some significant scorn that I settled in to
my latest challenge. Fakin bacon. First we must tackle the name. Now, I work
with words, that is my job. Nonetheless, I’m not literally literarily perfect.
Largely this is because people are very rarely literally anything. Make a note
of that, because if you get it wrong I will hunt you down and LITERALLY fist
your belly button. But Fakin, it upsets my sensibilities. Someone has sat down
and decided to go to print with a blazing spelling mistake on their product.
This is probably due to the resounding truth that people who eat fimo-flesh are
soft in the head. In reality they don’t even have brains, instead their bonces
are filled with great, curdled clods of tofu. Wobbly, hand-mashed tofu, stuff
that hasn’t even been deep-fried and covered in salt, chilli and garlic to
edify the horror.
To be fair to friend, she doesn’t eat fakin bacon. She’s
superb, so she wouldn’t – people who eat this metallically-tinged cardboard have
wax-dipped mouths. She also hasn’t tried to hang any ethical cause-celebre on
to her bonkers decision to forgo chop chomping. She just doesn’t like meat
much. Now, I do care about where my meat comes from. To the extent that I’ve
stopped eating it from my cafeteria and other disreputable food dispensaries. If
I am going to eat meat I don’t want it to have been wearing an antibiotic
pesary for the entirety of its miserable tox-in-a-box life. I also don’t want
its Frankenstein existence to have been cut short in an abattoir that sees
sadism as prerequisite. In spite of this,
I will never ever eat the fungal-abortion that is fakin bacon again. I will
simply buy farm-assured pork. Fact.
