everything but the squeal


My brother ordered Scrapple the other morning while we sat at the Parkview Deli. No one knew why. He ate it quickly, like medicine, so he could get to the pork chop that waited below. He eats quickly, so quickly that it is occasionally revolting to watch. He consumes with a vengence everything that lies on his plate. The scrapple was no exception.

We looked on in disgust as he swallowed forkfuls of the vile brown mass. When he finished, he sat back in his chair and told us that he didn't feel well. He also said that his tongue was coated in something that defied explanation. The taste of warm entrails and plastic perhaps? I didn't understand his motivation for eating that abomination in the first place, but I was rapt.

Upon leaving the restaurant, he wanted a drink to get rid of the wretched taste in his mouth and headed for the cooler. Seth settled on an Orbitz. He examined the bottle filled with pimple-like, floating globs. Ostensibly, they were supposed to mimic astral bodies but succeeded only in taking his mind off the scrapple fiasco. He breathed a sigh of resignation, and downed the liquid.

Out in the car park a few minutes later, he looked vaguely green. He had reached the pinnacle of ugly food dining. There was no where to go but down. Scrapple, I discovered the next day, is the unusable waste of pig parts--faces, colons, feet--which are not deemed suitable for other meat products. The ingredients of Orbitz remain a mystery.

DigitalEcho

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