Why do we hate liars, you ask? Why do we hold animosity towards fibbers? Because they don’t tell the truth, fallopian tube nose. Like Kevin Bacon, for example. His entire life is one large undulating charade, much unlike his penis in that movie Wild Things. Everything about his life is a lie, a falsehood, a fabrication, and the fact that he expects this dastardly deceit to fool the hearts and minds of the American people is something that makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit. And makes the dog poop on the floor. Which I guess is kind of acceptable if you’re a dog, but still.

But I digress. Kevin Bacon is a lying sack of dogshit on my floor. KB = CHARLATAN. What has provoked such a scathing condemnation by this enraged journalist? And Gruffles? I’ll fucking tell you why homeslice, so peep this shit.

Kevin Bacon just struts around all day, all willy nilly wearing lycra capris pants or whatever it is guys who unnecessarily showed their shriveled up dicks in otherwise extremely hot and arousing films are wearing these days, shouting out to every fool who walks by how he’s Kevin Bacon. Well you know something, literate person who’s reading this/illiterate person who is just staring at the page trying to convince people that they can really read when in fact they have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome? KEVIN BACON ISN’T BACON. HE’S A FUCKING PERSON.

You think someone would have noticed this by now. You think someone, anyone, of the six and a quarter billion people on God’s green earth would have gone up to Mr. “Bacon,” tapped him on his manicured shoulder, and whispered in his tightly coiffed ear: “Um, excuse me Kev, but you know you’re not bacon, right? You know you’re not a delicious breakfast treat often served with eggs and/or ham?

Perhaps if your name was Kevin Footloose Footloose Kick Off Your Sunday Shoes, or even Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, or, praytell, Kevin Human? How bout that, Kev-Slice? HOW BOUT KEVIN FUCKING HUMAN! (His name shouldn’t really be Kevin ”Fucking“ Human. Gruffles just added that for effect).

I hope one day, while I’m taking Gruffles for a walk, we happen to have a run in with the aforementioned acclaimed Hollywood actor. And during the course of said run in, I happen to knock said actor atop his symmetrical head with some sort of blunt object, perhaps something said actor would not recognize, like an Oscar.

Gruffles and I then happen to proceed to drag said unconscious actor back to our flat. We would then throw him in a frying pan and sizzle him to a delicious golden brown. Thusly we would happen to put said actor between two pieces of nicely toasted white bread, along with some tomatoes, lettuce, and a schmear of mayonnaise. Finally, after perhaps hours of planning, preparation, and pontification, I would happen to bite this seemingly delicious confection. But, but wait… this doesn’t taste like a… like a BLT? Where did I go wrong? How did I screw up? I’ve got the bread, I’ve got tomatoes, lettuce, and mayo. And, I mean, I got this really really expensive bacon? ”Kevin Bacon?“ I ask to tortured and pained former celebrity in front of me. ”KEVIN BACON!?! GUESS NOT MOTHERFUCKER!“

And that’s why Gruffles and I hate liars.