living death

Prologue: Lunch

"What may I bring you for your dinner?" the chef asked through the glottal marbles of northern-India.
"I'll eat whatever you recommend, and I love trying anything I haven't seen before."
"Is there anything you do not eat?"
"Sometimes I have issues with Spam."
"Then I have just the thing! Bobboldigoom!"
Blank look.
"You do not know of bobboldigoom?"
Blankly shaking the head.
"You would call it a fish curry, but it is made with the fish parts your countrymen throw into the garbage."
"Great!" Fish head, fish tail, I've been there. Just, no more tapeworms. Cook the stuff to death.
"And how spicy would you like it?"
"Make me hurt."
Oops.

Scene:
After opening a satchet of kippered cow whatnots, I munched through the whole damn thing. While I could probably use the protein, it so happened that the stuff had enough non-whatnot whatnots to hit my guts like a rollerderby championship team. And while I'm prepared to weather an intestinal storm (never drink the local water) I wasn't prepared for the rollerderby to assimilate every btu from lunch and transport them to the, um, final staging area, where they sat. And burned. Roilingly. Until I got home.

Now, I'd argue that "Make me hurt, baba-chod" is a worse choice than saying, "Hey wookie! Your father was a hampster and your mother smelt of billygoat!" But at least you can see the damage a wookie leaves behind.