Sausage of doom
During my high school days, my parents went out to dinner one night, leaving my younger brother and I to cook for ourselves. To assist in this, a package of sausages was left defrosting on the counter. Cheap sausages. Very cheap sausages, as it turned out.

I threw them under the grill and cooked them up, and we sat down and prepared to enjoy our meal. I skewered one with a fork and sliced the end off, and we both watched aghast as a torrent of fat poured forth from the ruptured sausage. For almost thirty seconds vile-smelling thick orange fat oozed out, seemingly in greater volume than that of the original banger. My sausages soon sat swimming in a pool of rapidly congealing grease that covered the entire bottom of the plate. My brother experimentally poked one of his snags with a fork, precipitating a similar eruption of fat.

We looked at each other, somewhat traumatised by the event. I hadn't cooked anything else for dinner. The sausages were all we had. Resigned to my fate, I raised the section of sausage to my mouth with steely resolve and bit down.

"So? How is it?" my brother enquired.


We ended up pooling our pocket money and ordering pizza.
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Thu 26 May 2011, 16:57, Reply)