The Bacon Incident
So in April, on the 20th, Veronica and I had just returned to the apartment after showing my in-laws how one goes about drinking a bottle of whiskey. To say that we were overwrought would probably have been the Victorian manner of saying that we were very hung over. It was the kind of state that you enter when the most basic tasks in the world seem to require endless prep. Getting up and getting a glass of water now involves the contortion of muscles as a step in one’s head instead of, you know, just standing and getting a glass of water.
Then the doorbell rang. I would like to think that Veronica went to answer it because she was less worse for wear, but the truth is probably that she is just stronger and entirely less lazy about things than I when it feels as if air pressure’s only goal to crush my mind. When she returned she was the exact opposite of the person who had left dragging her feet. She was giggling and almost bouncy. I am pretty sure that in her mind she was singing whatever rendition of “We just got a letter” goes with packages as she was carrying two boxes.
From the couch I inquired about what she had. “I. Don’t. Know!” Which is clearly the key words needed to make me stand when I have a massive self-inflicted wound to my soul. One of the boxes was plain besides the tape that simply said, “Bacon is meat candy,” which should teach us all a lesson about how tape clearly has important thoughts about things. The other box had the same slogan along with advertising from the site that it had originated from. I started to wonder aloud about who sent it, to which Veronica used the same “I. Don’t. Know!” line, which I believe in hindsight seems to work better than four Excedrin and sleep.
The unboxing project quickly moved to the couch, as I had just relinquished my pity party hiding place. I honestly don’t remember what order things came out in, aside from the fact that each of the two boxes had two pounds of bacon in them—each with some kind of mystic and exotic flavoring to them. Aside from the bacon, which if the tape is to be believe (and why shouldn’t it be) is meat candy, along with bacon flavored popcorn, tooth picks, floss, lip gloss/balm, seasoning, and toffee type candies. That list is not what came in the box. That is what came in the box that was bacon flavored. That doesn’t include the cook book, T-shirt, or apron. Also bacon.
So I get that it was a gift package, that stuff doesn’t contain pricing as not everyone wants to brag about what they spent on presents (although I will if asked). What I did not understand was the fact that it said that it was to me and that I was the person that placed the order. I know that I had consumed a vast trough of barrel aged sacrament the night before, but I think that over-nighting myself bacon would be something that I remembered. That basically meant that either someone shipped this and wanted us to be confused, possibly planning on it arriving on this very day to produce the most confusion, or this amazing bacon company is terrible at sending gift packages. I hope the former but suspect the latter.
My first response was to go onto Facebook and openly accuse everyone:
To which my mother did not respond happily about. I am sorry mom, but this was a bacon emergency and I needed answers.
Ok, so Facebook was not only useless for this, it made me sad that no one seemed nearly as eager and—really weirdly looking back—very much awake as I was. This might have been the greatest April Fools’ joke ever played and it seemed that the sender, Veronica and I were the only ones getting it. Sure it was the 20th, but that would have made it so much funnier. With no one helping that meant that I would have to resort to talking to people, and worse I would have to do it on the phone.
The first person that I called was my brother, because if anyone was going to troll me with dead animals it was going to be him. We were raised the same way and he is probably the only person on Earth that really understands steak on the same level that I do. The moment he picked up I asked if he had sent my wife bacon presents for her birthday. At first he was clearly confused, I explained further and gained “No, but if you want to I will take the credit.” The one time I don’t want to blame him for something that wasn’t his fault and that is what I get.
Next was Chris Sherry, because it is Chris Sherry. This is something he would do on account of him being Chris Sherry. No answer, left a message, moved on.
Over about the next half hour I reached out to further and further strange groups of people that it could be, all of them laughed and said something about that being awesome; none of them sent it. Over time I was growing more confused, who would have gone through the trouble of setting this up?
“It was Chris and Kim,” Veronica blurted as she had contacted Kim via Facebook and managed to get an answer. This meant that they watched me melt down and slowly start throwing pork styled blame at people for the better part of an hour before she came forward, possibly while laughing the whole time at the success of her master plan. My brain was like the nut house in Amadeus for almost an hour and Chris decided to not answer his phone.
There is a reason he and I are good friends.