Bacon Grilled Onion Day

Henceforth, Linguisticists will all refer to March 3 as Bacon Grilled Onion Day. Why? Because of my holy sandwich. The story goes like this:

I, the pope of Linguisticism, was hungry and saddened by the linguistic sin of the world. I resolved to cure my wretched anguish through my expertise of the culinary arts. As I roamed the kitchen halls, though, nothing in my stately pantry could appease my divine hunger. I truly ached for something out of this world. Bacon flashed through my mind. I didn't feel like breakfast though; the usual side of eggs seemed like only a half-meat. I was in the mood for something juicy: a meal worthy of three animals' deaths. That's when the epiphany erupted in my head: Club sandwich. Ultimate club sandwich. Yes. With divine speed, I rushed to the refrigerator.

I whipped out some turkey, thinly sliced, and threw it onto a holy cutting board next to some dripping ham, also thinly sliced. The meats have to be thinly sliced. That way you can fit more slices in the sandwich. The logic of that last sentence makes perfect sense to real men.

I threw on the sacrificial veggies: a ripe, red, bulging tomato; a perfectly green lettuce head, harvested from the holy lettuce fields where it is believed that Reno once trod; and finally, the secret weapon: the onion.

I grabbed the condiments, threw three slices of white potato bread in the holy toaster, and stopped to pray. I was about to combine two gods of the food world: Grilled onions and bacon. I didn't know if it would work, but I carefully laid three strips of perfect bacon in a pan and began to cook them, covered. (They cook faster and more evenly that way. I know that because I'm also the pope of a culinary religion.)

Then mighty Webster possessed my hands to perfectly slice the onion while the bacon prepared to begin its holy sizzling. Empowered by the essence of might Webster, I threw three ultra-sharp knives twirling violently into the air and caught them all with precision, one in each hand and one in my mouth, by the blade, all while doing a triple backflip and singing the National Anthem. (I hit the high note even with the knife in my mouth, but my mouth wasn't possessed. I'm just talented.) I spit out the third knife and threw the one in my left hand away; I really only needed one, but there was no way I wasn't going to be all ninja while a god had possessed my hands.

Anyway, I proceeded to slice the onion and laid three slices atop the bacon. By now, it had started sizzling. With my bare hands, I grabbed all three strips of bacon and turned them over so the onion slices were beneath them, absorbing the succulent bacon juice. When the onions had caramelized, they were a new, hybrid form of unmatched deliciousness. I felt the presence of Webster leave me, but my religious experience wasn't over.

I whipped out some pepperonchinis and threw all the ingredients together on my three slices of blessed bread. The sandwich sat atop a white, Roman column for a while (just because it was that badass), and I just looked at it admiringly. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a surging strength! I felt the whole world in me, and there it remained! I understood the fabric of the universe, and everything was clear to me; by making this sandwich, I had brought something so awesome into the world that I achieved the status of god!

That's why we celebrate Bacon Grilled Onion Day. I'm going to eat my sandwich now.