Meat Insanity and its Aftermath

I really don’t know what I was thinking. Was I overcome by nostalgia for summer cuisine? Were my omnivore “friends” so persuasive? Did I drink too many Coopers before the grill was going? I am not sure.
If you are squeamish, you might want to stop reading here.
Now that I have your attention, let me swear to you that I am never going to eat another sausage ever again. It was a delicious treat; a truly guilty pleasure. A bratwurst charcoal grilled into a crispy, juicy bundle of yum, stuffed inside a bun and slathered with pickle relish and mustard. The combination of char and nitrates and the sweet-sour-bitter of the condiments was overwhelming. I liked it so much that Tod and I shared three of them.
The next morning I woke up and knew exactly where the 1.5 sausages had landed in my digestive tract. In fact, they landed and stayed put – nothing was moving and by late afternoon I felt awful, so I took a dose of milk of magnesia and crossed my fingers.
I should have been pinching my nose. The end result was something that smelled exactly like the rotting, maggoty compost I got rid of from the balcony of last month. The stench was horrifying. Did I really do that to my body? Poor intestines. Sad, poisoned me.
Now I am contemplating a cleanse or fast or detox of some sort to ensure that I’ve gotten rid of it all. I don’t want that nasty crap inside me.
I must not forget that dead flesh in = rotting flesh out. Even when it tastes good.