Breakfast Sausage

Most people, and by most people I mean all people, either agree that breakfast sausage is not a tasty meat or are wrong in their opinion about breakfast sausage (And yes, opinions can be wrong [And yes, your opinion that my opinion that opinions can be wrong is wrong ((should you have such an opinion)) not only supports that my opinion is, if not right, at least valid, but certainly invalidates your own.] including opinions of personal taste, if such things even exist. [And no, as I will soon explain, I don't think they do; and yes, you can start a sentence with and; and no, you shouldn't do it very often, and, yes, that's the same as saying "and yes, you shouldn't do it very often" as long as it answers your question]). There are no exceptions to this rule. None. Not even my roommate, who eats breakfast sausage almost every day and who just yesterday used breakfast sausage as the primary, if not the sole, meat component of a meat loaf unbeknownst to me and to my eternal detriment. And no, that wasn't a complete sentence.

What foul, Hellborn, most assuredly twisted and rheumatoid hand first penned such a recipe I know not, yet I count such ignorance a blessing most sweet. Should I ask my roommate, he would probably answer "my mother," and might take issue with some or all of the adjectives in the previous sentence, but I cannot take them back, for I have tasted the meat loaf, and the loaf has spoken. "Well, I like it," he might say in defense of his disgusting meat loaf, but that's not good enough. Because of his choices, stemming no doubt from his so-called "personal" opinions,  I was encouraged to have some of the meat loaf for myself today. I've since brushed my teeth and still I taste it.

This horrible, horrible taste of breakfast sausage.

Imagine that a wild boar has come to the end of his life and now wanders through the jungle. Once strong and proud, he is now weak from years of struggle and a lingering disease. His eyes are glazed and see nothing until a harsh light awakens them to their purpose. He sees that he is no longer in the jungle but now stands in a clearing. The boar's first thought is to run back into the jungle, but he is too tired to run, too tired to even turn around.

He scans the clearing for danger but finds nothing but an open box of romaine lettuce. He approaches the box and sniffs a leaf. Unharmed, he takes a bite, then a second. Instinct shoots powerful electrical messages to every part of his body telling him to eat—eat until the food is gone. Soon his powerful jaws tear at lettuce and box indiscriminately. The boar slips into a blind frenzy and does not notice that beyond the top layer of fresh romaine the lettuce is wet and rotten and only barely covers a giant block of putrid beef fat. He gorges on the contents of the box. His stomach becomes distended with rotten lettuce and fat, then bursts, and the boar, too maddened by his frenzy to feel any pain, lies down on the unfinished pile of putrid fat and dies.

Now there appears a man who has come to check on his trap. Indeed he has caught and killed a mighty beast of the jungle. He knows that a catch this size will have to be left out to stew in the sun for at least a week before it is ready to grind, but soon he will have a bounty of breakfast sausage to sell in the market. This summer, his family will have all that it needs.

This is more that just an unpleasant and pointless tangent, it is probably a true story. If nothing else, I think it accurately describes the taste I'm dealing with right now, still.