Punctilious Platypus Platitude

The pumpernickel was ready, but the bakery had sliced the bread too long, and as it was warming, it hung over the edge, seeming to emerge from the hell within the glistening metallic toaster like four black snakes writhing toward the bacon. It was a veritable feral display of gustatory proportion, for when they landed upon the plate, they seemed to swathe the savory, slender slices – a tender porcine prize – like a comforter, a quilt, a blanket on pigs.

No smoke and mirrors, though it was on the eve of Applewood… and a brown sugar cure. Why do you taste so good?

A veritable serpentine soirée, the fork to my tongue never tasted so good, a delightfully delicious dispensation – though the comestible critique is a dilettante’s decree.

Why did you have to die to feed me?