I am starting a company that makes organic, free range, locally sourced bacon. Our farm will be just outside the city and our pigs will be very carefully raised on a diet of kosher (organic) pickles, sweet potatoes and hugs. They will play badminton or hide and seek at least once a day, get to roll in mud from the Dead Sea and will be each given an ol’ timey 1920’s name like Ernest and Ginger.
Ernest, Ginger and Friends will get to live out their days in the lavender fields until they die of old age. On their death beds, they will be surrounded by friends and loved ones, and a farmer will softly play the harp till they ascend to the pearly gates. Then they will be taken by a sensitive artist type who will turn them into tasty, tasty bacon.
I will then package the bacon in authentic brown butcher paper, tie it with twine specially made for me by artisans in Ithaca, and seal it with a label from some guys I found on Etsy.
At first I will sell the bacon from a gingham blanket out of the back of red 1950’s pickup truck that I paid tens of thousands of dollars for, but will loving refer to it as “this old girl.” But soon demand will grow too high and I’ll open a shop in Brooklyn which is made all out of reclaimed bowling alley floors and old Heineken bottles (Totally LEEDS certified, don’t worry)
Each piece of bacon will retail for about $15.95.
People are going to love it.
No, really, I’m pretty sure they would.