Here’s an answer to the age-old question: “Where does bacon come from?”
My mother used to work in a cookie factory. The guy who made the creme filling for their Oreo-like product used to stir a big kettle with a wooden paddle. It was hot. He was sweating. He didn’t wear a shirt. Drip. Drip. Drip. My mother still won’t eat creme-filled cookies.
“non sunt multiplicanda entia praeter necessitatem”
– William of Ockham
Sweat in cookies? Assholes in sausage? Big deal! Do you have any idea what’s in a regular old t-bone steak? Or any meat?
All kinds of neat stuff.
Peace,
mangeorge
B_Line12 - you mean you’re depriving yourself of steak and kidney pie? poor soul…