Day 2: You've Got to be Kidding Me

So, yesterday was rough. No one is going to take spider-eggs calmly. We were hoping that we had maybe picked the worst possible can right out of the gate, and we were in for some kind of smooth sailing for the rest of the week. Really really hoping that. You don't even know.

The meal plan for the night was Drip Beef Sandwiches. Last night, I put a whole mess of stuff into the slow-cooker and let it roll. When I got home from work, I had this:

I suppose it looks a bit like cat-sick. But it smells incredible.

It was my turn for can-picking, so I chose a normal looking can. It had a funky shake to it, like there were some kind of chunks in it. I thought to myself: "Maybe it's frute!" I'm sure, because it's Sara and Mike, that it would be some kind of dickfruit. But at least it wouldn't be spider eggs!

Definately not fucking fruit.

So, at first look, not real promising. It looked like this: Suppose that I ate some kind of spider eggs last night. Suppose further that I didn't have a cast-iron stomach and he-man constitution. Suppose further that I made sick-up. Finally, suppose that I worked in a canning factory, and that sick-up went bang into an unsealed can which I was too afraid of losing my sweet canning job to report. Mystery Can #7 looked just like that Shameful Sick-Up Can.

Meg gave me one of those looks that said "boyfriends what love their incredible girlfriends don't make them eat canned sick." I reassured her as much as possible (not fucking much). Hang on, though. Maybe it's just soup! Sure, it doesn't look good, but it could be soup! I smelled it to check it's souposity.

SMELL!

Not good. Not good at all. But maybe it's some kind of dick soup. I mean, it's possible. And soup is so safe and friendly! Then I remembered the clumps. I bravely stuck a fork in there and rooted around. This is what I found:

That's no soup.

What. The. Fuck.

This was a joke, damnit!

Being who I am, I immediately thought of Snouts. Some kind of horrorsnout, snipped live and brined in the tears of the innocent. Meg, on the other hand, thought it looked much more like a tongue. The tongue of a festering bloatape (that eats human flesh) that told only lies and cursed out God.

Artists rendition.

So...there we were. Beef is sitting there, ready to apply sandwich making upon. What the hell are we going to do with these?

Did I mention that they contain skeletons?

Well, Meg has a thing for salmon patties. And I have some skills in creating patties out of what-have-you...Let's do this!

Step 1: Kill it!


Step 2: Bury it in things that don't smell like the inside of nightmares.


Step 3: Beat it into submission



Step 4: Burn!!!!!

Just a note here....Seconds after adding them to the oil, they exploded. Again. Two days, two cans, two freaking nights in a row covered in burning oil and mysterious product. Why are you doing this to us? We're so good to you. We give you sweet mummies and faemylke. You give us things that should be buried at a crossroads after dark, and then explode when purifying heat is applied. We're going to cook tomorrow's can in a church.

Step 5: Silly Megan, that's not enough mustard!


Step 6: ...still not enough mustard.

Step 7: Time to eat!

I tried. I really did. I put spices in there. I put a ton of mustard on there. You can make anything edible with mustard, for god's sake.

Well...almost anything.

To be fair, it wasn't the worst thing I've ever eaten. Mostly, it tasted like mustard and crunch and bread. I manfully ate my way through. But sometimes I would plow right into a nugget of tongue that would just make me want to slip into a comforting coma. Meg tried several times to slip portions of the snoutburger to the dog or cat, only to have to eat them anyway as the fucking animals refused to eat it.

Five days to go. Maybe tomorrow I'll open up a nice can of live fireants!