This may well be the happiest day of my life.
I have just heard the three words that mattered most, those three words that every girl longs to hear at some moment in her life.
No Bacon Shortage.
At Slate, Matthew Yglesias points out that the dolorous reports from the UK’s National Pig Association of an “unavoidable bacon shortage” have been greatly exaggerated.
Yes, the price of bacon will rise, possibly by as much as 2.5 percent, an aftershock from the drought that drove up the price of corn and other crops used to feed pigs. But it will not be the nightmare we had imagined.
There is no unavoidable bacon shortage.
People saved from guillotines during the French Revolution: I know, now, what you felt. People snatched at the last minute from the jaws of certain destruction: I understand.
Some say that Hell is the absence of God. For me, Hell is the absence of bacon.
What I had been picturing, when news came of the impending Unavoidable Bacon Shortage, was something like that new NBC show where all the lights on earth are suddenly extinguished. Small packs of bacon-starved, wild-eyed villagers would rove the countryside with crossbows, scanning the ravaged landscape for any sign of wild hogs.
City-bound, and lacking any survival instincts beyond the vague understanding that it is unwise to cross when the red hand is flashing, I would be forced to descend to the depths in order to satiate my cravings. I would stand under streetlights late at night with my hands in my pockets. Finally, a stranger would approach. “Hey, lady,” he would mutter. “You look like you could use a little arteriosclerosis.”
I would visit bacon speakeasies, murmuring, “Hogwash,” to shady men in porkpie hats. They would nod and allow me upstairs, into the midst of the baconal (bacchonal? bacon-chanal?), where F. Scott Fitzgerald and his friends would be sitting around furtively smoking entire hams.
Perhaps the rest of the bacon hoarders would move underground, listening to ham radio (“You know what’s great? Ham!”) and fondling our jerky as we gazed up at framed pictures of the Bacon Sundae.
Thank heavens no such fate is forthcoming. I’d gladly pay more for bacon. I can save money by eliminating the monthly ritual where I buy milk, drink none of it, and have to throw it away weeks later when the unopened bottle threatens to explode.
My love of bacon is well documented.
I wish I had known this sooner, because I put all my money into bacon, and now I feel rather foolish, like those people who sold all their belongings and arranged for pet care in preparation for the Rapture. But better this than the alternative.