This is bacon. It came from a pig. If it didn’t come from a pig, it’s not bacon. This concludes our lesson for today.
Listen carefully, because I’m only going to say this in a voice loud enough to shatter your gluten-free earplugs: if it didn’t come from a pig, it’s not bacon.
So, newsflash to you AND your mangina if you call anything bacon that doesn’t come from a pig: you’re not fooling anybody.
It’s not “sorta bacon,” it’s not “healthy bacon,” it’s not “cruelty-free bacon.”
It’s. Not. Bacon.
Period. End of sentence.
Tattoo it on your ass so you don’t forget.
Turkey bacon? That’s just turkey with an identity crisis. Beef bacon? Congratulations, you made jerky that hates itself. And tofu bacon? That’s not even food, that’s drywall shavings cosplaying as breakfast. That’s soy-flavored cardboard laminated in liquid shame. Eating it should get you put on a watchlist.
In fact, whoever invented it should be tried at The Hague for crimes against humanity.
The psychos who thought they could hijack the word bacon and attach it to every limp, joyless meat substitute out there are basically guilty of culinary identity theft. Slapping the word bacon on some sad strip of vegan sadness doesn’t make it bacon any more than duct-taping a dildo to your car makes it a Ferrari.
You’re not clever, you’re not innovative—you’re just lying to yourself while chewing on compressed failure.
Calling that crap “bacon” is like calling a blow-up doll a girlfriend. Sure, you can slap a wig on it and take it to Olive Garden, but everyone at the table knows you’re lying to yourself while chewing on disappointment breadsticks.
If we were being honest, “facon” shouldn’t be allowed within a 10,000-mile blast radius of real bacon. Hell, even typing the word feels like a hate crime against pork. But I’m not here to save the lost souls willingly spending money on that counterfeit swill. If you’ve tricked your own mouth into swallowing it, congratulations—you’re basically paying to be mugged by flavorless mediocrity.
And the people who buy this garbage? You know who you are. You’re the kind of masochists who think cauliflower pizza is “just as good,” or that almond milk somehow qualifies as milk when it comes out of a nut that’s never seen a nipple.
Again: you’re not fooling anyone. Least of all yourself. Every bite of fake bacon is just a reminder that you’ve given up on happiness.
But here’s the silver lining: every time one of you diet-zealot bacon-blasphemers throws your money at “facon” or “plant-based bacon,” you’re doing me a favor. Because while you’re busy pretending to enjoy your edible yoga mat strips, I’m stockpiling the real stuff. Piles of crispy, greasy, beautiful pig bacon. And when the apocalypse hits—and it will—I’ll be the king of flavor, while you’re gnawing on soy leather wondering why God abandoned you.
So keep your counterfeit crap. It leaves more real bacon for the rest of us. And that’s the one area of your life where you’ve finally made a good decision.
