My friends, I am a man whose conversion is complete. Before, I was lost. Now, I am… well, sometimes I cheat and look at Google Maps. Before, I could not see. Now, I have X-Ray vision (nice Underoos, by the way). I was a wretch, and now I am a sated wretch.

For I have found Bacon Salt.

Yes.

Bacon.

And salt.

Married together in a ceremony dancing on the edge of Heaven and Hell, Bacon + Salt have formed an evil yet holy union, poised to reap my soul like Mrs. Dash could only have ever hoped to do, and what Mrs. Butterworth–that succubus of syrup!–tried to do by tempting me with her revealing form. Some fiendish genius allowed his Id and Super Ego to rut around in his taste buds’ pantry, and the result was the combination of two flavors kept apart for thousands of years by nothing more than gastronomical bigotry.

Do you doubt me? Do you say to yourself, “Skippy, no, there’s no government in the world that would approve such a combination. It’d be too fantastic! Why, world peace might break out as we’d all sit down to some eggs and toast liberally decorated with this fabled ambrosia, and then, later, war as bacon salt would be horded and then used to replace all existing currency. It’d be madness!”

Ah, but join me in insanity:

“Everything should taste like Skippy bacon.”

See? I lie not! There’s the miracle mixture, and a watch and a gavel. The watch, because it’s always time to eat bacon salt. And the gavel because, frankly, it should be against the law to not eat the stuff.

Hurry out, friends, and buy your batch of bacon salt. Join the choir visible and sing unto the explosion of deliciousness! And, should you hear rumors that Morton, the reigning Queen of salt makers, utter discouraging words about bacon salt, listen not. She’s just jealous. Besides, I did some digging around their servers and found this hidden, protected image. This is the side of Morton they never wanted you to see. Ladies, please sit before you view this image. Gentlemen, hold strong to something firm. This is no image for children–send them outside to play. For, I reveal to you:

Oh, fie on you, evil Morton! This is the beast you set loose in our cabinets, on our steaks, and in our mashed taters. When the chips are down, when faced with the divine assault of the bacon variety, we see you for who you are. Such terrible appendages! Your trail of salt turns to blood, and your recent carnage is evident from the twin rivulets of red running down your chin, almost a Fu Manchu of grisly terror .

Plus, you eat babies. I mean, c’mon. That’s just wrong.

Remember, friends, turn to the bacon salt. It is the only thing that can save you. (Also, it’s not bad on vegetables. I’m just sayin’.)