I am watching something on the internet and being appalled. This isn't difficult. The net is a very democratic place; there's something out there for everybody to be appalled by.

The curious thing is that, in some people's minds, the thing I'm watching should be just my cup – or should I say, 40 sugars-strong-bucket – of tea.

I am watching a bunch of hairy Canadian men with bloodshot eyes make a lasagne out of layers of Big Macs and crisp bacon. Now I'm watching them make a TurBaconEpicCentipede: 10 roast piglets, stitched together nose to tail, each stuffed with a turkey, in turn stuffed with a duck, then a chicken, a Cornish hen and a quail, all of it dressed with strips of crisp bacon and a whole bunch of other stuff. In the corner of the screen a counter registers that this monstrous protein, fat and carb food Frankenstein has now clocked up three-quarters of a million calories. I am watching Epic Meal Time and I am feeling queasy in so many ways.

I am very late to the Epic Meal Time party. It first appeared on YouTube back in October of last year when a big bloke from Montreal called Harley Morenstein was filmed eating a burger containing six patties and 18 bacon strips. Lots of people watched. So many people watched that they made another video, involving an absurd food project. Then they made another, and another and another. Some of their videos have been watched more than 10 million times.

I'm not dumb. I know this is about the comedy of excess. It is wry and self-knowing and absurd. You don't even have to tell people not to try this at home; nobody could be bothered. The Epic Meal Time boys have cornered the market in nose-to-tail pigs. But... but... please guys! You're giving greed – my greed – a very bad name.

I write about wanting to eat with my hands, or the joys of things that smell lightly of death, or how slow eaters drive me nuts, and all of a sudden it's assumed I'll only be really happy when I'm locked in a Montreal apartment with a bunch of other big bad Jews doing filthy things to piglets involving three kilos of streaky bacon, a gross of Big Macs and a litre of Big Mac sauce.

Real enthusiasm around food is not indiscriminate. It's not about the lowest common denominator, and plunging down towards it so fast you'll get a nose bleed over the salted caramel popcorn. It takes hard work. It takes effort. It takes a blue velvet smoking jacket and a cravat and I possess both of these things. All right, maybe you don't need the cravat, but you do need taste and lots of it, for the world is awash with eating opportunities that are not worth the effort, let alone the calories.

This is what those with a stunted interest in their dinner don't get. They think it's about a lack of control, when it's exactly the opposite. It's about taking control: of appetites, of possibilities, of yourself.

One evening I watch a little more Epic Meal Time. I watch them make huge Chinese dumplings filled with hunks of Big Mac. For a moment I am enthralled by watching them weave a carpet out of bacon strips. But quickly, I recover myself. I know this is wrong. I know what I am not. And I am not that.