Piggypalooza

Last night I cooked breakfast for a few friends. Which was a little strange, since I don’t normally eat breakfast at night (well, not sober anyway). But what was even more abnormal was that the key feature of the meal, and truly the reason for the get together in the first place, was some delicious back-bacon smuggled into the country.

Living in an Islamic Republic, I tend to forget that I haven’t eaten pork in a long time. But generally, I don’t really miss eating pork at all. Except, that is, when it comes to bacon. Breakfast without bacon just ain’t right. The eggs just sit there looking so lonely. Sometimes the hashbrowns try to help out, cracking jokes and trying to bring out the eggs' sunny sides. But without the bacon, something is missing. It makes me sad, which is terrible, because breakfast usually makes me happy. Eggs without bacon is like bread without butter, George Bush without a smirk, Celine Dione without earplugs and howling dogs…

But last night, the call came in - there was bacon to be had. My friends (names withheld for Islamic protection) were giddy with excitement. They were like little kids, combining the pleasures of a special treat with the knowledge that they’re doing something wrong. Although, I’m always surprised that most of my, shall we call them non-practicing Muslim, friends don’t fast, don’t pray, they’ll drink, do drugs, engage in premarital shenanigans, but by no means will they touch the pig. Funny that that is always the last thing to go.

There seemed to be some kind of consensus in the group that I would naturally be the bacon expert, my lifetime porcine consumption being far more advanced than their own. I’m generally known as a good cook, which is a bit of a curse what with the "Oh, Dave will cook" feature, but I generally don’t mind. Only problem was that last night was like cooking in a sauna, and by the time I was done I was sweating like a pugilist in the 14th round. Finally, dinner, or rather breakfast, was served around 11:30 pm. We opened up another round of beer, presumably so the guys could wash down the last vestiges of their moral upbringings. I looked on them with pity. I can dine on swine without guilt, since after all, I’ve got Jesus. They, on the other hand, are all going straight to hell.