I usually like to think of myself as a guy who will eat anything once. If people go out of their way to make it and consume it, there has to be something going for it. Am I right or am I right?

However, I draw the line at insects. Bugs creep me out. Eating them is completely out of the question. This is why I am shocked and skeeved as fuck at the existence of Casu Marzu, a.k.a. “Rotten Cheese“, “Jumping Cheese” or “Maggot Cheese“.

The dead black sheep of the Pecorino family, the Sardinian Casu Marzu is purposely infected with the larvae of the Cheese Fly (Piophila casei) and allowed to go far past the ripening stage and into full-on decomposition. The cheese becomes goopy, seeping liquid and infested with tiny, translucent-white maggots that wriggle and squiggle and can jump up to six inches when disturbed. Mmm…maggots.

So what’s it taste like, you wonder?

“…a viscous, pungent goo that burns the tongue and can affect other parts of the body”

Enough said.

Banned from sale in Italy, but available via the black market, it’s usually consumed with bread and strong red wine (it’d have to be really fucking strong, I would assume) and is known to cause potential health problems such as allergic reactions, toxic poisoning (from letting it rot too far along) and intestinal larval infection.

Topped on french fries, it makes a lovely appetizer.

Entombing food in lexan containers for a year or longer is a brilliant idea. Check here and here for an awesome set of photos of a raw egg and a slice of bacon, 365 days down the road. It looks fucking tasty. Honestly, I’ve had some breakfast sandwiches at some of these Manhattan delis that really don’t look that far off from what’s pictured. It just needs ketchup. Eat it.

I’m not sure what caused it, but I have been enjoying what I suspect is some choice, plump and deliciously mild food poisoning. Sitting here at my computer in a death sweat, drinking some mad concoction that’s supposed to keep me from redecorating my home in shades of puke, I wonder if tonight I will see a few hours of respite from the nausea gnomes and catch at least a few hours of sleep, free from the tossing, grumbling and weak promises to god to never eat finger food at a public event ever again.

Still, when one is down in the doldrums of a general malaise, there’s always something to perk up about. Words like ‘barfalicious’, ‘barftastic’, ’spewmongous’ and ‘pukeriffic’ bring a weak grim to my pasty mug. Daydreams of massive projectile vomiting on subway passengers, knocking newspapers, babies and hairpieces to and fro with a massive, multicolor blast of barfy righteousness elicits a slight giggle as well.

I would trade all this highbrow, self-perpetuated entertainment for a stomach that would behave in a second, of course. But as it stands, I feel like ass. Fuck that, I feel like some old dead guys ass, stuffed with a dead ferret. I could make comparisons between my current condition and all sorts of asses, alive, dead, stuffed or otherwise, but I think I’ve worked that angle to death in previous posts. I just want my stomach back.

Have I offended the barf god? Do I need to slay a goat at the temple of hurl? Seriously, give me a sign and as long as it doesn’t entail jumping-jacks, licking ashtrays or gargling on cockroaches, I’ll do it.