It all began back on September 11th when I decided to try out the microwavable mini sausage biscuits I’d been pumping down my kids ever since that really good BOGO at the Winn Dixie.  They were portable, kinda cute, and smelled pretty good coming out of the plastic steam bag.  The kids were acting appropriately grateful for a mom who went to all the trouble of “cooking” a hot breakfast before school each morning, so I figured I’d give it a shot.

One bite and I about ran my Jeep into the ditch with all the gagging going on. It was hot;  I’ll give it that.  But beyond temperature, that micro mini biscuit was unrecognizable to the palate. I wasn’t yearning for gourmet, wasn’t even hoping for it to touch a Hardee’s biscuit; so my expectations were, well, less than refined.   With something like a pizza roll or a hot pocket, you know what to expect and you count on enough pasteurized processed cheese product to give the thing a little flavor.  Not so with these convenient little breakfast bites.  The biscuit had the texture of a worn out bandage and the sausage did not taste like it came from any animal ever even resembling a pig.  I spat and sputtered, whipped into my parking spot at school, and tossed that nastiness on the grassy median with a “Get behind me, Satan!” thinking it was biodegradable and some dog or bird would take care of it.  I thought wrong.

Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms.  The buzzards, the worms, and even the ants all gave that sausage biscuit two thumbs down…way down.  My mama once said that if flies won’t light on it, it ain’t food.  That’s how she broke me from my habit of spooning Parkay out of the tub like it was ice cream.  That sausage biscuit just lay there…for weeks…completely intact.

It lay in the Alabama heat of September, sweating out unpronounceable ingredients.  It lay through downpours, humidity, and the dead of night.  It lay through a hurricane, for goodness’ sake, before the flour in the biscuit (if flour was an actual ingredient) finally gave up the ghost and exposed its meaty innards.   It lay unmolested by critters, insects, or microscopic organisms.  It lay unperturbed by the elements of nature.  It lay on the ground, a “living” testament to resilience and the glory of preservatives.  It lay there until Friday, November 3rd.

I buried the remains of that microwavable sausage biscuit right there in the grassy area it had clung to in its post-nuclear afterlife.  I took my garden spade and uprooted it from the ground where it fused itself with the ooze of exposure.  I stabbed it through its webby heart with a stick, spat in the hole, and buried it facedown in the grave like you would a vampire.  I tamped down the earth, asked Nature not to upchuck it from Her maw, and marked the spot with a leftover Halloween headstone graciously provided by one of my teacher friends.  Several cars filed by in slow procession, but no one cared enough to stop and pay their respects as I did my grisly work.

Requiesce in pace, o farciminis.


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