(Bacon Pancakes? Yeah, that's an automatic bump -- Ross)
The bye week is a desolate caesura devoid of any meaning or life, not unlike the fallow field hidden under the deep snows of winter. The lost football fan wanders aimlessly, blank in his stupor.
For there will be no Shakespearean Opponents edition. There will be no narrative development concerning the week's foe rather lukewarm, latent hate of an inchoate rival. ("Inane gibberish" made me laugh, however.) This idled (and decidedly not addled) being desperately seeks something to chew and savor. And yet he waits and waits, nothing comes.
Then a thunderbolt! Like manna from heaven, it arrives: a picture so powerful it rends the writer speechless. Bacon Pancakes. He is compelled to say those dripping sweet words again, this time shouting them as tmesis: BACON-FUCKING-PANCAKES!
Note the earnest Iowa pitcher -- if childhood recollection serves, we had that exact one but we sure-as-shit never had bacon pancakes -- bestowing its refined class and civility to create a serene tableau of breakfast bliss.
The Iowa pitcher capriciously and indiscriminately bukkakes his love batter all over Miss Bacon's face, thus conceiving unholy demon spawn destine to gut bomb your Saturday.
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