"Bacon Hands", a super-short sTROYie.
"It lay there, unfulfilled and resigned to its fate looking up at me despondently, like a death row prisoner strapped into the gurney who had already given up -- with no hope of a last minute reprieve phone call, no tension or drama from spectators... seeking closure in its demise. And then, it struck me, that sad-looking sandwich that I had made for my lunch would be enhanced with BACON. I quickly procured three thick sliced naturally smoked center cut pieces from the frig and then, with a desire to be humane to my lunch's final moments, I swaddled them in paper towels and laid them in the microwave manger. 120 seconds passed, and I swear that I could see my sandwich change before me -- still resigned to its fate, but now almost proud -- as if it were preparing for a culinary honorary discharge. The mayo glistened, the folds of ham suddenly seemed almost as if they had been pressed and the bread stood firm at attention with the knowledge that it was honored for the service it was to provide. Then, with the beep of the microwave signaling the beginning of the impending ceremony, I reached in to claim my bacon, unwrapping it from its paper towel protection and lovingly placing it on my sandwich-soldier. In the glory of the moment, an angel whispered in my ear, 'wash your hands -- you've seen the signs promoting hygiene, you're in the kitchen, you are about to eat' ... and then, in the other ear, another voice -- could it be an even more beautiful angel ... could it be the voice of God and not one of his employees -- whispering, 'Don't wash them! Then they'll smell like bacon the rest of the afternoon'. Ahhhhh ... bacon hands!"
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