When Goober started chopping his way through the rear wall of my house, all the other guests sprinted through the front hallway towards the front door, but there were so many of them that they clogged up the door like your heart might clog up if you ate seven quarts of bacon in one sitting…just jammed there, all thirty of them, making piteous mewling noises with their feet slipping and spinning on the tiles.
And I’ve done that, by which I mean I’ve eaten seven quarts of bacon at one sitting—not made piteous mewling noises while jammed into a doorway with thirty other people and my feet slipping and spinning on the tiles. But mind you, not ostrich bacon. Ever had it? I haven’t; it’s gross.
When I talk about eating bacon, I mean pig bacon, the real kind, from those big pink snuffling quadruped things that laze around snorfing up their own…well, it doesn’t matter what they’re snorfing up; ostrich bacon is even grosser.
Not that ostriches lay around snorfing up their own…