You Are What You Eat

After a week of keeping company with Archie Bunker sans the pressures of everyday life, my fears are again confirmed. I really, really don't like him. Even when there is maid service! He sill has the big crazy on the brain during vacation.
Since our vacation was split between a train ride and a visit to Seattle where the natives consume dandelion juice, wheat grass, and alfalfa sprouts, Archie was constantly on the lookout for a hotdog (and not one made from tofu, lips and assholes only please) or a pizza, or some GD-effing bacon because he was soo so hoongery. I'm through with bacon. I can't stand the sight of it anymore after watching so much of it being jammed into my significant other's pie hole. Except maybe crumbled on spinach. maybe. (Don't even start hassling me about that vegan shit, Dr. FK)

Archie Bunker's endless quest for food added at least another 10 pounds to his already impressive bulk. He was thoroughly disgusted with the fare that ordinarily accompanies a hike up a hill so he fortified himself with such aggression beforehand that he could barely even begin the hike. In the middle of the hike he'd get pissed because he was walking up a hill, and at the top he'd be upset because there was no buffet, just a bunch of truant executives pretending to be hippies munching on dry roasted almonds.
That being said, I think I should buy him the bacon alarm clock pictured below and move to Seattle permanently.