No shit, there I was...
(classic intro of a harrowing recounting of a Traumatic Event)
So, there I was, in our local giant super mega international food market (not Trader Joe's. Bigger. MUCH bigger.)
They, of course, had samples out. Samples to tempt the palate AND the courage of bold shoppers. I can eat just about anything. I really have (of thought I had) a cast iron stomach, lined with Kevlar and coated with Teflon.
Enter: The Cheese Shoppe.
Angels fear to tread and all that.
People gathered around a sample table, studying small wheels of a innocent enough looking crumbly cheese. It was marked in large, friendly letters on a sigh above it, "Caribou". Bobby loomed in and proclaimed, "Smells like feet."
Since there were, oh, four or five people around (an audience), I, of course, had to swoop in and make a showboating ass of myself. I got them laughing with my running commentary, and piled a HUGE crumbly glob of the stuff on one of the provided cracker and popped it in my mouth.
The feet of a 1000 year old corpse left to pickle in a brine of fermented ox ass and abandoned park bathroom-tile mildew marmalade.
And it was kinda salty.
And me, being me, made loud with the funneh, left my new single serving friends standing around the sample table and made a beeline for Starbucks. Bobby, who had tried a teeny nibble, headed to the ice cream stand to cleanse his abused tongue.
I tried to wash down the cheese and taste with a Venti Green Tea Frappacino.
I suddenly started to realize I was starring in my own episode of Fear Factor.
Ten minutes later, I was heaving in the bathroom, praying for death and wondering if I could I could entice a passer-by to beat me to death with a urinal cake as an act of mercy.
Lesson: Sometimes, no matter what your epicurean level of bad assery you think you possess, you really shouldn't swallow.
From a public entry, quoted with permission.