posted on Nov, 30 2012 @ 07:37 PM
My bacon story. When I was a wee lad in boy scouts, some sadist scoutleader nazi decided to have a camping trip in early wintertime - in western New
York. After hiking and tying knots and a bunch of other boy-scouty activities, we were given food rations fit for a Siberian gulag. Then we turned
in, sleeping in a freaking tent in a sleeping bag temperature-rated for living room floors. The next morning around a campfire that was nowhere near
large enough to thaw my frozen bones, someone produced a large slab of uncut bacon and an iron skillet. I've never enjoyed a meal like that slab of
mostly pork fat before that day, or since. Now every time I smell bacon I get frostbite on my toes. Even in summer.