Liverwurst

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While reading a Wall Street Journal article about the privacy issues associated with Facebook, a phrase caught my attention:

If blogging felt like shouting into the void, posting updates on a social network felt more like an intimate conversation among friends at a pub. 

The introductory phrase is what caught my attention, because it accurately captures what it feels like writing to no one in particular.  It gets further complicated when I consider how lousy I am at writing to people that I know and that would want to hear from me, yet I'm quite happy to write to what is, and don't take this personally, a small and generally unresponsive audience.  I don't think my mom is impressed.

If I am, indeed, shouting into the void, I must imagine that the void is not a warm and fuzzy place but rather a dark and expansive space, one presumably absent of mothballs, monsters under the bed, or evil traffic lights. 

But there must be something there.  And that something would be liverwurst.

My history with liverwurst goes back to childhood, when "choices" were limited to the one of the following that was available:

  • PB&J.  A timeless classic.
  • Bologna. "My bologna has a first Bologna name, it's O-S-C-A-R, my bologna has a second name it's M-E-Y-E-R..."
  • Split bananas with miracle whip and peanut butter.  Yes, that's on bread.  I'd venture another go at that, but my wife forbids Miracle Whip in the house.  It's prohibition was foundational in our marriage.
  • Pimento cheese.  A southern classic, notably available at The Masters for gentle men and ladies.
  • And liverwurst.

Liverwurst. Say it out loud.  Go ahead.  Now say it loud enough so someone can hear you.

You didn't, did you?  Why? Because you know they'll think you're W-E-I-R-D.

I mean, just look at it.  And people wonder what goes into hotdogs?

liverwurst

Liverwurst came packaged in slices, a square greyish pink slab trimmed around the edges in what I recall was a greasy, slimy layer of white fat.  I think it was intended as a warning to go no further.  If that didn't work, then there was the odor, a clear indication that it was time to go to my best friend's house and see what he had in his fridge, because Ken's parents loved him. 

Okay, quiz time.  Which sounds more appealing?  Liver? or Wurst?  Eh?  Can two wrongs make a right?  Liverwurst and I parted ways before high school, and I think we've both been okay since.

So I was talking with a friend of mine from Toronto, who told me he had just gotten a sandwich.  From out of the Void, I said something close to "Oh man, don't do it.  Put down the liverwurst!"

He said, "How did you know I was eating liverwurst?"

Admittedly, in a joking sense, I was thinking the wurst [sic] of him.  The Void did it.  In it all it's nothingness, it still had the wisdom to eject the sheer notion of liverwurst from its space.  That it would occur to me that that there was the truly awful possibility that someone would be eating liverwurst 635 miles away (as a bird flies) begs a proximate cause.

"Seriously, how did you know?"

I don't have an answer for that.  Some things are better left aVOIDed.

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