I never sausage a thing.

Today I felt awful for sausage. Not the same kind of awful I feel while watching Rudy, but you’ll get the gist.

I was devouring my Diet Supreme (not at all French) Bread Pizza That Comes in the Green Box, when between the two bites it usually takes me to consume it, I actually looked down. There was the pepperoni, splayed out in male peacock fashion, round and robust and fully symmetrical. It was the color of a goat’s teat and – next to the MSG/roid-raged green and red peppers – it was the most colorful part of the topping fireworks display.

Pepperoni had it going on, and it was making no apologies.

And next to these uber toppings, the sparkling onion and even the slick, taupe mushroom, was the gray matter. Bits of something. Nay, morsels? Chunks? Nah. Lumps. Bulges of what looked like chewed-up newspaper or maybe even smooth, moist cat litter. Closer examination revealed these knobs to be the red-headed stepchild of the linked-meat universe: the sausage ball.

Researcher that I am, I had to track down others. It turns out sausage scabs abound. All the diet pizzas have them, scraps of virtually colorless meat material. (My first recollection of the meat in its post-living form is from the Butcher’s Wife - I blame the fact that it’s imprinted itself on my brain on the odd pairing of Demi Moore and possibly one of the Daniels brothers (?) – and it looked much like pepperoni [whose mention for some strange reason always brings both a Burgess Meredith ”baloney pony” reference to mind and an equally disturbing shudder].)

Sausage AND pepperoni both come in a link, straight from the ark, do they not?

But wait, the pizza chains have them too. Ground up bits. Tads of something. Specks of pork and orphans and sparrow beak (or whatever it is). Check it all out at a Pizza Lean-To and a Papa Juan’s near you. I tell you no lies.

I don’t even like sausage. I usually pick it off, much like old women in the path of my minivan (I kid). But if I were you, and I liked sausage, I’d revolt. It’s time for the kind of mass phone campaign that brought Designing Women back. That should save Arrested Development. That the beau makes to sex lines each month.

Wait, what?




File this under: FTLOG. Tags: mutton morsels; baloney pony; my massive phone bills and I don’t even use the damn thing; crickets.