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- #221
Njaco
The Pop-Tart Whisperer
I've eaten escamoles in Mexico City, Casu Marzu in Sardinia and Lutefish steeped in lye. I've struggled with pacha in Bagdad and balut in Cambodia. I've had potted meat (mechanically seperated chicken) and Pickled Pork Lips and the bewildering Chili Brick. Big Macs in New York, Beggin' Strips in Detroit and Cuitlacoche in Tampa. I've had durian blow my nostrils out. Hell, I've eaten just about anything as long as there was some hair around it! But this! This was from Satan's own arse!
I shoved the mass into my mouth and immediately regretted it. I wanted to run my tongue across tree bark to get the taste out! Unfortunately, swallowing didn't help dissipate the flavor because the ooze melted, coating my mouth and lips with a glistening sheen of sadness. I was overcome by an urge to go in the field and eat grass until it was all out of me. It was that bad. The worst part was it smelled like corn that forgot to wipe. But I didn't let my hosts know what I was thinking.
I smiled at Candy Bar as my tongue tried to find a way out of my mouth. Roscoe just stood there, looking like he'd been pulled backward through a knothole. Grunting "foufff', he lowered the bat.
"All of it." said Candy Bar and stepped towards me to make sure I did. Fighting back an urge to puke my entire body out of my nose, I faced Roscoe.
"Hey buddy that's a nice shirt, what brand is it? Clearance?" I asked, trying to change the subject. The remainder of the glop that was on my lap, slid onto the ground and crawled away to join a Mariachi Band.
"That'll do, pig." he replied and started swinging the bat around in front of him. I was stunned that he could talk.
It was about this time that the lump of sludge hit my stomache.
I was in the middle of thinking of a come-back when my intestines interrupted the proceedings with a low grumble that grew in volume and length. Beauty and the Beast stopped and started staring at my mid-section. I found myself watching the upper part of my belt buckle as another grumble rolled out, almost as another language. I had an uncomfortable feeling that meant only one thing. A fis.
Another grumble and I let loose. Long in duration and piercing in sound, I had to say I was kinda proud. Geronimo and Pocahantas stood there dumbfounded, the cricket bat hanging limp at his side. Another second and their faces started to contort into strange shapes, like they were sucking on lemons. Sound wasn't the only gift that sludge had to offer. It brought with it a smell that would have gagged a maggot. I almost want to say it was like a freshly douched pork chop. Mutt and Jeff couldn't handle it. They fell to the ground and started writhing as the methane cloud passed over them and the campfire. I thought I was in trouble at that point but the fire actually blew out. It was then while they were trying to stuff dirt up their noses that I made my escape.
Breaking out one last promp, I bolted into the field and started running as fast as I could through the moonlit stalks, smiling to myself at how lucky I could be sometimes and praying I wasn't leaving a trail to follow me by.
I shoved the mass into my mouth and immediately regretted it. I wanted to run my tongue across tree bark to get the taste out! Unfortunately, swallowing didn't help dissipate the flavor because the ooze melted, coating my mouth and lips with a glistening sheen of sadness. I was overcome by an urge to go in the field and eat grass until it was all out of me. It was that bad. The worst part was it smelled like corn that forgot to wipe. But I didn't let my hosts know what I was thinking.
I smiled at Candy Bar as my tongue tried to find a way out of my mouth. Roscoe just stood there, looking like he'd been pulled backward through a knothole. Grunting "foufff', he lowered the bat.
"All of it." said Candy Bar and stepped towards me to make sure I did. Fighting back an urge to puke my entire body out of my nose, I faced Roscoe.
"Hey buddy that's a nice shirt, what brand is it? Clearance?" I asked, trying to change the subject. The remainder of the glop that was on my lap, slid onto the ground and crawled away to join a Mariachi Band.
"That'll do, pig." he replied and started swinging the bat around in front of him. I was stunned that he could talk.
It was about this time that the lump of sludge hit my stomache.
I was in the middle of thinking of a come-back when my intestines interrupted the proceedings with a low grumble that grew in volume and length. Beauty and the Beast stopped and started staring at my mid-section. I found myself watching the upper part of my belt buckle as another grumble rolled out, almost as another language. I had an uncomfortable feeling that meant only one thing. A fis.
Another grumble and I let loose. Long in duration and piercing in sound, I had to say I was kinda proud. Geronimo and Pocahantas stood there dumbfounded, the cricket bat hanging limp at his side. Another second and their faces started to contort into strange shapes, like they were sucking on lemons. Sound wasn't the only gift that sludge had to offer. It brought with it a smell that would have gagged a maggot. I almost want to say it was like a freshly douched pork chop. Mutt and Jeff couldn't handle it. They fell to the ground and started writhing as the methane cloud passed over them and the campfire. I thought I was in trouble at that point but the fire actually blew out. It was then while they were trying to stuff dirt up their noses that I made my escape.
Breaking out one last promp, I bolted into the field and started running as fast as I could through the moonlit stalks, smiling to myself at how lucky I could be sometimes and praying I wasn't leaving a trail to follow me by.