Don’t Start Your Day With Bacon And A Wank

It's the fucking nitrates

And like absolutely everything, I don’t know why this generation feels compelled to absolutely motherfuckingly insist on renaming everything that has served perfectly well under its own name before now.

And NOT WANKING, in my opinion, is a perfectly normal name for what has irritatingly become known as the NOFAP movement. I mean, why is it even a movement?

Back in the late sixties, there was an anti-war movement. A movement is undoubtedly a political show of strength about something that matters to the people. Since when did not spanking off become worthy of being called a movement?

Regardless, wanking is one of those things that is ill-advised in the morning, especially if you have children or a job or have to go down the shop or put the bins out or if you have to do just about anything. And no, it’s not the same as morning hanky panky. When yo put yo sperm into a woman, the sponge-like porosity of the shaft sucks in her kombucha D’fannie, which, nature would have it, is just as potent as ye spunkus maximus.

Therefore morning sex is energising as fuck. Morning wanking is not because the only thing the porous shaft is sucking in is the vibrations of your own self-loathing. When those fertile or not fertile micro-pearls trampoline their way out of your mushy pink slit eye, they are not entering the body of your lover, giving her energy, but more likely entering the horrifically processed Kleenex which does not need such a sacred energy boost.

But ya know, when yer a writer, things are different. From that moment you first open your eyes, you can turn left or right down the road of self-loathing or self-love, and contrary to popular delusion, one is not more helpful than the other in terms of karmic evolution. And yeah, morning wanks are not always framed by the golden bathtub of self-loathing. Sometimes, they can take place in the arena of self-love.

When things are going swimmingly in material and spiritual ways, one often feels like a good tug to celebrate. Sometimes, I put up balloons and streamers and bake a cake. Then I imagine its a surprise party, and everyone I know busts into my loungeroom at the moment of my ejaculation, and I stand there, hanging from the doorframe with my grandfather’s World War III commemorative purple tie strapped around my neck and my titanium butt plug buzzing furiously in my Proctus Minimus.

Anyway, where was I?

That’s right. Bacon.

A nitrate is apparently something that hardens your arteries, but they use it in food anyway because it is a good preservative. So fuck it, why wouldn’t they. Hats off to them. And regardless, even if there aren’t any nitrates, bacon is the shaven cock of an imprisoned pig, sliced up and soaked in enough salt to make even the dead sea quiver with jealousy. And yeah, it tastes decent enough for memes to float around talking about how god made bacon. But it’s also why it knocks you out quicker than Cassius Crayfish.

So, like bollock tennis, bacon is ill-advised as a morning treat. And besides, it’s a real shame some pig has gotten its throat slit so you can do your bacon benedict dance for your TikTok account.

It’s also a shame that yer gonna die from hardened arteries so you can do your bacon benedict dance for your TikTok account.

And it’s a shame yer gonna get fired from yer job cos yer had a morning wank and then did yer bacon benedict dance for your TikTok account in tandem, and now yer fast asleep on the couch with yer cock still wrapped in tissue like a cheap hotdog at the local farmers market and yer father in law is due in around fourteen minutes to fix the metal Jiminy in the tap upstairs.

So yer better wake up yer filthy fuck. Wake the fuck up, take a shower and get back to yer work, or better still, go get a coffee and go for a walk and think about getting your life together.

It’s not too late, you know.

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