Thursday, February 14, 2019

The Burnt Bacon Codicil

Back where my people are from -- far back in the sticks but still on the right side of the tracks -- live a people where they still have common sense. For one thing, they don't mollycoddle wives, which is one of my big complaints in the alt society we suffer today. Back home, if they don't get it right, it has eternal consequences: "You're out!" Or the old man's simply gone and no one knows where.

O! the things guys suffer these days! I've heard their cries everyday since my coming forth from the homeland so very long ago. A lot of the problems are of a sexual nature, which is easy enough to overlook. Who among us hasn't been so stoved up he'd bust or so dried out he thought he'd blow away? That's how they make raisins, you know...

Yes, the problem today is sexual, but of a different sort. Rooted in sex, since sex is the main purpose in marriage, as in bearing young. They've been doing it forever. Adam and Eve, all the way up to Little House on the Prairie, and still today. Although -- I'm not trying to take us too far afield -- there's a lot more sex of a selfish nature, Me/Myself/I, now clean it up... It's a revolting subject, get it out of my sight!

Our main point today is to report on the Burnt Bacon Codicil in marriage vows. It used to be done, you know, and a man stood by it, and a woman (God spare her) had to face the judgment: "No more marriage for you!" With that and just that fast, the old man was gone. Did he have help on his journey? Yes, the whole clan pitched in! And that's how it should be. A woman like that has no place among our people, not watchful enough to cook bacon? I need to pause before I wet myself cussing...

Anyway, the Burnt Bacon Codicil is a true thing, and back home it had pride of place in our marriage vows. "I vow to love you forever, until the stars fade, until the moon fizzles and falls, until the sun hides its face, until the cows run away and someday find their way home... Or until you burn the bacon, which is a real danger." But, like in most things, there could be mercy. For me, I know, say you burnt the bacon once, I'd have mercy and try to step you through the bacon-cooking process, then maybe you'd do it right. Once or twice or three times and maybe even four times, I might endure it, then say you got it right once or twice, then burnt it again. At that point there's no promises.

I'm very realistic. You have a hard time getting the bacon done right, you may as well be gone. How goddamned hard can it be? You set the stove, you clean out the ashes, you give the burners a good 24-hour scrubbing, maybe you pick out less than completely dry wood, then you get it stoked as though you have a purpose, you're not sloppy, you pay attention, you turn the bacon, your eyes are glued to it and its progress. The kid's fallen out of his crib, he'll keep, that bacon won't! The kid's not on a set schedule, that bacon's nearly burnt!

And speaking of kids, you know what, Missy? There might not even be any kids if you're slow on the uptake with the bacon. Think long and hard about that, or maybe you won't have anything long and hard to think about. It's true. There's lots of kids -- bless their failed souls -- who aren't with us today because their would-be mama didn't know the first thing about bacon. Whatever angel wings they started with, they still have, which is sad or happy depending on how you look at it. For them, it might be mostly happy... Who wants a bacon-burning mama?

So look there, cooking the bacon good is a matter of life and death. As an aside, we need men to care, to set the example and lay down the law. Who won't give into their wives' sexual urges till their bacon drive is well satisfied. Give 'em an inch, guys, and they'll want the whole thing.

This whole business of the Codicil and the keeping of the standards also affects dogs. How's that? you ask. Explaining it in detail would take us too far afield, but here's a summary: Teach a man to fish and he'll eat for life. Give a dog bacon and he'll expect it forever. Something to ponder, dogs and their expectations.

It can be a sad business. I'm old, but my memories of back-home are still clear. An aggrieved husband, a clueless wife: "My daddy never told me, my daddy never told me," she whimpers, crying, shrieking. "Shut your fool mouth!" the husband wails, "Your daddy's the fattest man in three counties! He ate bacon by the bucket! Your momma was a good cook or you wouldn't even be here!"

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