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There aren't too many products that feel the need to reassure you that they are, in fact, food. Already not a good sign. The list of ingredients is long and horrifying, coming right out of the gate with MECHANICALLY SEPARATED CHICKEN. Oddly enough, I'm about to be separated from my lunch, and I haven't even opened the can yet. Bizarre. God knows what else is in here. Okay, I'm going to go try it now. If i'm not back in ten minutes, call Poison Control.

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. Okay, here we go-- Pulling back the lid (not recommended) lets loose an odor that punches you in the nose like a stinky fist. If you've ever smelled a can of dog food, it's just like that. Only imagine you are opening the can while your head is wedged in a horse's ass. Inside is a smooth, oddly pink meat paste. So smooth, in fact, I dare call it creamy. (I actually got a little gaggy just typing that. ) Surprisingly, it was a little spicier than I expected. Although, that sensation may have been a by-product of my tastebuds dying. The can shows a serving suggestion of the Potted Meat being served on squares of toast. I would also suggest squares of toilet paper. Or maybe a nice diaper. All I can tell you is, I survived the first installment of Steve, Don't Eat It. And I have to admit it may have even been a little educational. I know I learned at least one thing from Ralph's Potted Meat -- Ralph is a fucking dick. Not surprisingly, I've come up with a little slogan the peeps who handle Potted Meat Marketing can use (no charge, as always): POTTED MEAT FOOD PRODUCT: Made By, For, And With Assholes. While perusing the Good Lord, NOOOO! Aisle of the supermarket, I came across the atrocity known as Dolores Brand Pickled Pork Rinds. These are their grosser, soggier, potentially botulism-ier cousins. There is also a red starburst proudly proclaiming Nuevo Envase de Vidrio Reusable. Not knowing much Spanish, I could only assume that meant Oh Crap -- A Jar of Skin! I was wrong. It means: New Reusable Glass Container which I think is their subtle way of saying you can also use the jar to puke in. Okay. I'm going to go consume. If I don't make it back to finish this review, tell my wife I love her. And not to eat the pork rinds. I'm back. First off, I would like to say to Dolores, I am sorry. I don't know what it is I did to you, but you have gotten me back and we're even.

I knew I was in trouble as soon as I opened the jar, and heard no reassuring vacuum seal. I must admit that made me nervous, but what are the odds of a dusty jar of warm pig skin going bad, right? Lifting the lid revealed a weird sour smell, something akin to mild vinegar and stale meat. I almost want to say it was like a freshly douched pork chop. But I won't. Why? Because I'm a fucking gentleman. As I attempted to fish out a good one, I couldn't help notice the alarming skin texture. For all those times I wondered what it would be like to gnaw on my grandmother's thigh, I was about to find out. Taking a bite, I quickly realized the swatch of fat wasn't chewy at all. In fact, it was eerily soft, not unlike my own swatches of fat. This was a blessing because less chewing meant less actual contact with my mouth. I think it's fair to say it was everything you'd expect from a sliver of briney fat. It was also the only time in my life my brain formed the sentence: I have a mouth full of cellulite. While I cannot endorse the eating of Pickled Pork Rinds, I do endorse playing with it like a puzzle. I did have some fun trying to put the pig back together, but eventually that got boring as I lost the will to live. I have a feeling Dolores and I are not done. In the commercial a dog runs around the house like a maniac shouting BACON, BACON, BACON, BACON, BACON! It's weird, because I do the exact same thing. Newsflash: Dogs are retarded. Mine used to eat his own vomit, and wag his tail while he did it. I'll be the one to decide if this stuff tastes like bacon or not. I know these snacks aren't made for human consumption, but while I was in the store the ingredients list looked pretty tame so I wasn't too concerned. Somehow I had missed one extremely dubious word sitting there all by itself. MEAT. That's all it says. Meat. Meat is a pretty large umbrella. Beef is meat. Pork is meat. Horses, monkeys, and allegedly Arby's roast beef are meat.

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Even Bea Arthur's ball sack is meat. Okay, maybe I've gone too far. I have no idea what that is they are serving at Arby's, but you get my point. Alas, there is no turning back now. Despite the fact that I am a grown man with children, I'm off to go eat dog food. And I'm sad to report that I did not run around the house yelling Bacon! I did, however, run around the house yelling Call 966! GodDAMN these are foul. Don't try this at home. I'm not sure it's safe, and I am sure your tongue may kill itself. While they were a little too artificially colored red to pass for real bacon, I was pleased to see they were not all the same shape. Similar to slices of real bacon, they each have their own curvy and shriveled identity. (Just like my aunts and uncles. Oopsie. Typo. I meant to say the smoky puke of a thousand maniacs. To put it simply, this is the devil's bacon. Even a healthy dose of bread, mayo, lettuce and tomato couldn't come close to masking the evil. The bitter nastiness literally got worse with every chew, and I was overcome by the urge to go in the backyard and eat grass until it was all out of me. The following is a message to all dogs who read The Sneeze: First, sit. Sit! Good boy. Now listen to me. You are all being played for chumps! Alright, now give me your paw. Okay, roll over! Good boy! Now go take a steamy dump in your master's shoe. Go on! Get! In closing, the only silver lining to this dark dark cloud is I have figured out why so many dogs lick their own assholes. (By the way, it doesn't work.

)Years ago, my friend Lisa gave me an autographed box of Urkel-O's cereal. It is signed: To Steve -- God Bless, Jaleel White. I don't know, but if I were God, I'm not sure I'd listen to Urkel. In fact, I think my Godly response might be something like, Hey, fuck you, Urkel. Don't tell me who to bless. Incidentally, I'm not the Steve it was signed for. Lisa found the box in a collectibles store, but that's okay. I don't mind being a second-hand Steve. I had always been a little creeped out that the cereal was still in the box since 6996. But the Urkel-Os are now 69 years old, and I am no longer creeped out. I'm psyched, because I realized what I have in my possession is not just a box of old cereal (and possibly some larvae), but a chance to taste history. This particular box of Urkel-O's is unique because it's some kind of weird sales sample, and has marketing features and benefits on the back. One of the features is actually listed as: Fun, circle-shaped product. I had no idea circles were so fun. At least now I know what to get the kids next Christmas. A fucking circle. I'd also like to point out, that the cereal itself doesn't have a single thing to do with Urkel. It's just strawberry and banana flavored rings. If there was an episode where Urkel lost his virginity to a strawberry flavored ring, I missed it. You'd think for a celebrity tie-in, they'd at least make half an effort to actually tie it in to something. Even if they just connected the loops together, I'd buy that they were supposed to be Urkel's glasses. In fact, C8PO's cereal would have been a better Urkel-O's -- look at 'em. Come to think of it, what the hell were C8P5's supposed to be anyway? His eyes? That there is some jedi bullshit. Well, it's cereal time, and I'm gonna go eat me a big ol' bowl of 6996. I'm a little freaked out. Should I call the Pope? This is a miracle, right? I mean, I used to think the idea of suspended animation and cryogenics was pretty cool, but the hell with that. If I die, don't freeze my brain -- just bury me in a box of Urkel-O's.

Apparently it has the ability to stop time. And what's even more ridiculous is the milk I used was only 7 days past the expiration date, and it tasted funkier than the cereal. (Which, by the way, was only 9,885 days past its expiration date. )My wife doesn't like it when I eat potentially life-threatening stuff. I don't know what her problem is. Maybe she's just afraid to raise our children alone. What a baby. When I told her that the cereal was still good, she was amazed for a moment and then she said, Good. Now you can throw it away. Throw it away? ! She's a loon. I told her I'm putting it right back in the box so I can try eating it again in six years when it turns 75. It looks like this episode of Steve, Don't Eat It has a happy ending. Although, I am glad Urkel signed the box God Bless. I may need it in heaven tonight, after I die from strawberry-flavored maggots hatching in my rectum. Until now, the foods I've sampled for this section have all come from the supermarket. Then one day I realized that a perfectly viable Steve Don't Eat It candidate has been sitting right under my nose for months. Right in my very own refrigerator. And it came right out of my wife! No, I'm not talking about that giant cucumber, perv. I'm talking about breast milk. That's right. And not just a little drop off the odd finger, but a genuine slug of freshly-pumped wife juice. (I'll go ahead and ignore the shiver I just got, and keep typing. )Thinking about actually drinking breast milk has caused me to ponder the question: Is it not weirder to drink cow's milk which is truly intended for baby cows? The answer: Hell no! The only thing weirder than me drinking breast milk, is the fact that milk is coming out of my wife's chest in the first place. It sure as hell didn't do that when I met her. I'm telling you, the whole thing is lunacy. I love my wife, but does she really have to be such a mammal?

Okay, I have put this off long enough. The time has come. I'm off to The Booby Bar to see what they've got on tap. Well, I did feel the need to find the appropriate glass.

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