I’M NOT EATING THAT

You gag. I dig in.

Walk into a bar with me and don’t bother handing me the menu. I’m not here for wings or nachos. I’m here for the jars.

You know the ones — sitting on the counter like props from a horror movie. Cloudy liquid. Meat bobbing like it’s been preserved since Nixon was president.

Pickled eggs.
Pickled sausages.
Pickled gizzards.

Most people look at that and say, “I’m not eating that.”
Me? Slide it over. I’ll fish one out bare-handed if I have to. Hot sauce on top. Crunch, chew, swallow. Done.

It’s not courage. It’s conditioning. I grew up in a house where beans and cornbread were dinner five nights a week. If you’ve stared down a plate of cold beans four nights in a row, believe me — one pickled egg ain’t that scary.

---

The Canned Meat Hall of Shame (and Fame)

Now, let’s talk canned meat.

Potted meat? Looks like pink drywall paste. Spread it on bread, it tastes like childhood poverty with a side of salt.

Vienna sausages? Pop the lid and they slide out like short, slimy weenies. Wobbling, jiggling, daring you to go for it. And I always do — straight out of the can, hit ’em with hot sauce, maybe a little mustard, gone in sixty seconds.

Deviled ham? The can’s so small you think it’s bait. Yet somehow it lasts for three sandwiches. Nobody knows what animal it came from. And nobody dares to ask.

People sneer, “Potted meat? Deviled ham? That’s dog food.”
Meanwhile, sushi — literal sea boogers — costs $18 a roll.

And then there’s Spam. Spam is the Neil Diamond of canned meats. Not everyone’s taste, but undeniably versatile. Fry it, cube it, bake it, or eat it cold straight from the can. Slice it thick, throw it on white bread, add mustard — suddenly you’re Hawaiian royalty.

Meanwhile, the room is full of people gagging, waving their hands, “I’m not eating that?”
Me? I’m licking the fork and grinning.

---

The Bologna Gospel

Let’s not forget bologna.

Fried bologna is heaven on a skillet. The edges curl up like it’s trying to be a taco. Yum. But I’ll eat it any way it comes — fried, cold, on white bread, dressed with mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, or pile on all three. After all, moderation is for quitters.

But don’t go hatin’ on bologna. That’s the blue-collar ribeye, and I’ll die on that hill.

---

The Raw Hot Dog Incident

Next up on the questionable protein tour… hot dogs.

I eat them right out of the package. Cold. No grill, no bun, no shame. And let me tell you — they’re not raw. They’re pre-cooked. It’s basically lunch meat shaped into a tube.

A friend once told me her two-year-old wouldn’t eat a hot dog straight from the pack. I said, “Oh yeah he will.” Two minutes later, that kid’s chomping away like he’d been starved since birth.

My bad.

---

The Green Room Special

Now for the closer — pickled pig’s feet.

Yep, I eat those too. No hesitation. And here’s the thing: nothing turns a room greener, faster. Pop the lid and suddenly everyone looks like they’re about to go full-on Exorcist. Heads spinning, stomachs flipping, meanwhile, I’m reaching for my third.

It’s chewy, tangy, salty, and yeah — it looks like a dare. But it’s a dare I’ll take every time.

---

The Truth

Here’s the deal: food is personal. Your “gross” is my comfort food. Your “never” is my Sunday treat.

So, next time you see a guy at the bar crunching a pickled egg, downing Vienna sausages with hot sauce, or gnawing on a pig’s foot like it’s wing night at Hooters — don’t judge.

That guy is me.
And I promise you this — it tastes a hell of a lot better than it looks.

---

The Condition — proof that one man’s “gross” is another man’s delicacy.

💬 If this made you laugh — or throw up in your mouth a little bit — hit the ❤️, leave a comment, and share it with someone who still treats Spam like toxic waste packed into a rectangular can.