You don't understand. I have been given bacon lithographs. Bacon cards. Bacon band-aids. Plastic Montessori bacon. Real bacon in all its glorious smoked, aged, free-love, free-range, and generally absurd food-fuss variations (see an excerpt from David Rakoff's brilliant mockery of chic eaters
here). Point is: I like bacon and am gifted accordingly, something like your friend who has the thing for ladybugs and now has ladybug slippers, shower curtain, toaster cozy, and so on. But get out the bugles and sound off because I have just been given the gift to end all gifts, a gift that could, in fact, change the course of human history. I see peace on the horizon and bliss in the tea leaves. Imagine this: small flecks—nay, crystals!—of applewood-smoked bacon and alderwood-smoked salt enrobed (as they say) in 41-percent-cacao chocolate.
I want nothing more from life. I have had it all. When I die, I will look back and say, "At least I ate that Vosges." People, get one. Get ten. Actually, don't get any because then there's more for me. This is better than Wonka. This is better than Sahagun, than Richard Donnelly, than John & Kira's. This is even better than that peanut butter bacon pizza they used to have over on Lakeshore. It's that good.
