For Your Benefit.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Jester and myself had just finished cursing up a blue streat at the read through and were prompted from the piece to seek out chili-dogs. Only one place in town to get a chili-dog, so we headed to the DQ. DQ wanted an arm and a leg for that sum-bitch, so after Jester got a quick blizzard we headed for the Wal for a little self-assembly project. Fueled no doubt by exhaustion and vile American playwriting at it's strongest a thought came to me; Chili-Brauts. Chili-Cheese-Brauts to be exact. Jester theorised that we could batter dip and fry the whole fucking thing and we would have the ultimate meal. It would have to be assembled behind bullet-proof glass, the sausage meat and breading manipulated with stainless steel claws. We settled on the Chili-Cheese-Brauts, not having the budget or patience to undertake so insane a meal assembly.
And here's the result: Never do it. Right now I have so many nitrates coursing through my blood stream that I'm fairly certain I could lift a battle-tank with my cock. I want to rip the computer monitor free of it's moorings and hurl it out the window for no reason. I am on a roid-rage like Braut-Frenzy, and I fear entering the public eye. They would judge me. Scrutinize me. Call me a junkie. A tube-meat addict. And I would be powerless to stop myself. I would kill them, grind them, put them in a natural casing, slather them in chili, cheese, onions, and stuff them in a fucking brat bun. So here I sit. Riding out the storm. I only pray this cautionary tale will encourage you to consume your meat byproducts more responsibly than myself. And Jester? He ate his own foot after the Brauts, and last I saw him he was hopping down HW 2 at 50, screaming about Mono-Nucleic Sythesis while simultaneously humming the 1821 Overture. God help us both. What have we done?