I love bacon --bacon on my bacon; bacon-wrapped bacon and potato cheddar wedges; bacon floss; hell, I think that Nitrous Oxide needs to come in several bacony flavors so that I can pass out to the smell of crackling pig-fat while I'm going under for my first of many Bypass surgeries. Nothing says irony like getting your ribs cracked open in order to replace your bacon-damaged heart valve with one from a pig whilst being serenaded by the dulcet tones of Hickory-Smoked bacon cooking on a grill.
What I won't stand for though is someone who takes things too far --ironic, I know. When someone puts my love of bacon in mortal danger; danger so palpable, so close at hand that I can feel it breathing over my shoulder and poisoning the one love that I thought, in the immortal words of George W. Bush, was 'un-put-downable', then I must act. Or at least write a strongly worded blog about it and then go back to my Sunday of pajamas and screaming at the television.
What danger, you ask? Bacon-lube, that's what.
But Finnian, what's so bad about Bacon-lube?
I'll tell you what, commie --take off your beret, put down your little red book and stop murdering those children for a second and listen to my words, America hater.
Raise your hand if you love bacon. You too, pinko; I know you *heart* bacon in all of its glorious iterations --don't be afraid.
'Che, the Bay of Pigs is just a place name --there are no pigs there for your bacon." "But I love the bacon..."
Here's where it gets complicated --follow me, if you can.
Bacon Tastes good. Bacon SMELLS even better.
Sex is generally good (barring late night mistakes at the Airport Lounge). Sex though, generally, does not smell even better.
In fact, the smells associated with sex are a general road-map as to how your night is going and how much worse it may possibly get. Add in to this already volatile mix the confusing aroma of roasting pig-flesh and you can see where I'm going. The smell and taste of cured meat is something that, during sex, elicits in me a Pavlovian response somewhat akin to a Chinese Firedrill.
Like this, but with more cowbell and less chubbiness.
If I am in the midst of having inadvisable sex with someone after too many tall cans of Steinlager then I am going to need to rely on all of my beer-dulled senses to keep the night from swerving from 'just plain depressing' to the land of 'holy-hell, how in the monkey f#$k did I end up here??!?!'. One of those senses, sadly, is my sense of smell.
Far be it for me to poo-poo anything bacon-scented/flavored/otherwise, but this particular product seems to blur several lines that I would prefer stayed unblurrable. Bacon in the kitchen; uncomfortable crying, groping and sadness in the bedroom --and never the two shall meet.