Steve, Don't Eat It! Vol. 1

Potted Meat Food Product

There aren't too many products that feel the need to reassure you that they are, in fact, "food." Already not a good sign.

The list of ingredients is long and horrifying, coming right out of the gate with "MECHANICALLY SEPARATED CHICKEN." Oddly enough, I'm about to be separated from my lunch, and I haven't even opened the can yet.

Other ingredients include BEEF TRIPE, BEEF HEARTS, AND "PARTIALLY DE-FATTED COOKED PORK FATTY TISSUE" How does one de-fat fat? Bizarre. God knows what else is in here.

Okay, I'm going to go try it now. If i'm not back in ten minutes, call Poison Control...

I'm back. Oofah.

Okay, here we go-- Pulling back the lid (not recommended) lets loose an odor that punches you in the nose like a stinky fist. If you've ever smelled a can of dog food, it's just like that. Only imagine you are opening the can while your head is wedged in a horse's ass.

Inside is a smooth, oddly pink meat paste. So smooth, in fact, I dare call it "creamy." (I actually got a little gaggy just typing that.) Surprisingly, it was a little spicier than I expected. Although, that sensation may have been a by-product of my tastebuds dying.

The can shows a serving suggestion of the Potted Meat being served on squares of toast. I would also suggest squares of toilet paper. Or maybe a nice diaper.

All I can tell you is, I survived the first installment of "Steve, Don't Eat It." And I have to admit it may have even been a little educational. I know I learned at least one thing from "Ralph's Potted Meat"-- Ralph is a fucking dick.

Not surprisingly, I've come up with a little slogan the peeps who handle Potted Meat Marketing can use (no charge, as always): POTTED MEAT FOOD PRODUCT: Made By, For, And With Assholes.

Steve, Don't Eat It! Vol. 2

Pickled Pork Rinds

While perusing the "Good Lord, NOOOO!" aisle of the supermarket, I came across the atrocity known as Dolores Brand Pickled Pork Rinds. These are not the crunchy pork rinds you'll often see over by the chips. These are their grosser, soggier, potentially botulism-ier cousins.

The label says "Ready to Eat." They left off "By Dumb-Asses."

There is also a red starburst proudly proclaiming "Nuevo Envase de Vidrio Reusable". Not knowing much Spanish, I could only assume that meant "Oh Crap -- A Jar of Skin!"

I was wrong. It means: "New Reusable Glass Container" which I think is their subtle way of saying you can also use the jar to puke in.

Okay. I'm going to go consume. If I don't make it back to finish this review, tell my wife I love her. And not to eat the pork rinds.

******

******

I'm back. First off, I would like to say to Dolores, I am sorry. I don't know what it is I did to you, but you have gotten me back and we're even.

I knew I was in trouble as soon as I opened the jar, and heard no reassuring vacuum seal. I must admit that made me nervous, but what are the odds of a dusty jar of warm pig skin going bad, right?

Lifting the lid revealed a weird sour smell, something akin to mild vinegar and stale meat. I almost want to say it was like a freshly douched pork chop. But I won't. Why? Because I'm a fucking gentleman.

As I attempted to fish out a "good one," I couldn't help notice the alarming skin texture. For all those times I wondered what it would be like to gnaw on my grandmother's thigh, I was about to find out.

Taking a bite, I quickly realized the swatch of fat wasn't chewy at all. In fact, it was eerily soft, not unlike my own swatches of fat. This was a blessing because less chewing meant less actual contact with my mouth. I think it's fair to say it was everything you'd expect from a sliver of briney fat. It was also the only time in my life my brain formed the sentence: "I have a mouth full of cellulite."

While I cannot endorse the eating of Pickled Pork Rinds, I do endorse playing with it like a puzzle. I did have some fun trying to put the pig back together, but eventually that got boring as I lost the will to live.

I have a feeling Dolores and I are not done. As long as she continues to market such treats as (click if you don't believe me) Pickled Pork Lips and the bewildering Chili Brick, I have no doubt she and I will do battle again.

(Looking for Steve, Don't Eat It! Vol. 1? Here it is.)

Steve, Don't Eat it! Vol. 3

Beggin' Strips

Beggin' Strips are bacon-shaped, bacon-flavored treats for dogs. In the commercial a dog runs around the house like a maniac shouting BACON, BACON, BACON, BACON, BACON! It's weird, because I do the exact same thing.

Beggin' Strips slogan is "Dog's don't know it's not bacon!" Newsflash: Dogs are retarded. Mine used to eat his own vomit, and wag his tail while he did it. I'll be the one to decide if this stuff tastes like bacon or not.

I know these snacks aren't made for human consumption, but while I was in the store the ingredients list looked pretty tame so I wasn't too concerned. Somehow I had missed one extremely dubious word sitting there all by itself. "MEAT". That's all it says... meat.

Meat is a pretty large umbrella. Beef is meat. Pork is meat. Horses, monkeys, and allegedly Arby's roast beef are meat. Even Rosie O'Donnell's ball sack is meat. Okay, maybe I've gone too far. I have no idea what that is they are serving at Arby's, but you get my point.

Alas, there is no turning back now. Despite the fact that I am a grown man with children, I'm off to go eat dog food. And what better way to have Beggin' Strips than in a Beggin', Lettuce, and Tomato Sammich!

**********

**********

I'm back. And I'm sad to report that I did not run around the house yelling "Bacon!" I did, however, run around the house yelling "Call 911!"

GodDAMN these are foul. Don't try this at home. I'm not sure it's safe, and I am sure your tongue may kill itself.

While they were a little too artificially colored red to pass for real bacon, I was pleased to see they were not all the same shape. Similar to slices of real bacon, they each have their own curvy and shriveled identity. (Just like my aunts and uncles.)

And somehow these Beggin' Strips also managed to smell just like bacon. Oopsie. Typo. I meant to say "the smoky puke of a thousand maniacs."

To put it simply, this is the devil's bacon. Even a healthy dose of bread, mayo, lettuce and tomato couldn't come close to masking the evil. The bitter nastiness literally got worse with every chew, and I was overcome by the urge to go in the backyard and eat grass until it was all out of me.

The following is a message to all dogs who read The Sneeze: First, sit. Sit! Good boy. Now listen to me. Beggin' Strips do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT TASTE LIKE BACON. You are all being played for chumps! Alright, now give me your paw. Okay, roll over! Good boy! Now go take a steamy dump in your master's shoe. Go on! Get!

In closing, the only silver lining to this dark dark cloud is I have figured out why so many dogs lick their own assholes. They are trying to kill the taste of Beggin' Strips. (By the way, it doesn't work.)

(All Steve, Don't Eat It's can be found here.)

Steve, Don't Eat It! -- 1991 Urkel-Os

Years ago, my friend Lisa gave me an autographed box of Urkel-O's cereal. It is signed: "To Steve -- God Bless, Jaleel White." I don't know, but if I were God, I'm not sure I'd listen to Urkel. In fact, I think my Godly response might be something like, "Hey, fuck you, Urkel. Don't tell me who to bless."

Incidentally, I'm not the "Steve" it was signed for. Lisa found the box in a collectibles store, but that's okay. I don't mind being a second-hand Steve.

I had always been a little creeped out that the cereal was still in the box since 1991. But the Urkel-Os are now 14 years old, and I am no longer creeped out. I'm psyched, because I realized what I have in my possession is not just a box of old cereal (and possibly some larvae), but a chance to taste history.

This particular box of Urkel-O's is unique because it's some kind of weird sales sample, and has "marketing features and benefits" on the back. One of the "features" is actually listed as: Fun, circle-shaped product. I had no idea circles were so fun. At least now I know what to get the kids next Christmas. A fucking circle.

I'd also like to point out, that the cereal itself doesn't have a single thing to do with Urkel. It's just strawberry and banana flavored rings. If there was an episode where Urkel lost his virginity to a strawberry flavored ring, I missed it.

You'd think for a celebrity tie-in, they'd at least make half an effort to actually "tie" it in to something. Even if they just connected the loops together, I'd buy that they were supposed to be Urkel's glasses.

In fact, C3PO's cereal would have been a better Urkel-O's -- look at 'em. Come to think of it, what the hell were C3P0's supposed to be anyway? His eyes? That there is some jedi bullshit.

Well, it's cereal time, and I'm gonna go eat me a big ol' bowl of 1991...

**********

**********

I'm back, and I'm not exactly sure how to say this, but... THE CEREAL IS STILL GOOD! I swear to God.

I'm a little freaked out. Should I call the Pope? This is a miracle, right? I mean, I used to think the idea of suspended animation and cryogenics was pretty cool, but the hell with that. If I die, don't freeze my brain -- just bury me in a box of Urkel-O's. Apparently it has the ability to stop time.

And what's even more ridiculous is the milk I used was only 2 days past the expiration date, and it tasted funkier than the cereal. (Which, by the way, was only 4,380 days past its expiration date.)

My wife doesn't like it when I eat potentially life-threatening stuff. I don't know what her problem is. Maybe she's just afraid to raise our children alone. What a baby. When I told her that the cereal was still good, she was amazed for a moment and then she said, "Good. Now you can throw it away."

Throw it away?! She's a loon. I told her I'm putting it right back in the box so I can try eating it again in six years when it turns 20.

It looks like this episode of Steve, Don't Eat It has a happy ending. Although, I am glad Urkel signed the box "God Bless." I may need it in heaven tonight, after I die from maggot eggs hatching in my rectum.

(All Steve, Don't Eat It's can be found here.)

Steve, Don't Eat It! Vol. 5

Breast Milk

Until now, the foods I've sampled for this section have all come from the supermarket. Then one day I realized that a perfectly viable "Steve Don't Eat It" candidate has been sitting right under my nose for months. Right in my very own refrigerator. And it came right out of my wife! No, I'm not talking about that giant cucumber, perv. I'm talking about breast milk.

That's right. And not just a little drop off the odd finger, but a genuine slug of freshly-pumped wife juice. (I'll go ahead and ignore the shiver I just got, and keep typing.)

Thinking about actually drinking breast milk has caused me to ponder the question: Is it not weirder to drink cow's milk which is truly intended for baby cows? The answer: Hell no! The only thing weirder than me drinking breast milk, is the fact that milk is coming out of my wife's chest in the first place. It sure as hell didn't do that when I met her. I'm telling you, the whole thing is lunacy. I love my wife, but does she really have to be such a mammal?

Okay, I have put this off long enough. The time has come. I'm off to The Booby Bar to see what they've got on tap...

***************

***************

Oh, where do I begin?

Well, I did feel the need to find the appropriate glass. Drinking it from a baby bottle seemed too on the nose (not to mention too creepy), and I didn't have enough milk to justify a martini glass. (Although with a splash of Bailey's I suppose you'd have yourself a nice "Nippletini.") Luckily the "Dumbass Website Gods" smiled down upon me. I came across the only shot glass we happened to have in the house, and it was actually from Wisconsin -- The Milk State!

I must admit that my aversion to drinking breast milk is something of a double-standard. Let me try to put this as delicately as I can out of respect to my female readers... but some women have been known to willingly "ingest" a certain dubious "body fluid" made by men, during moments of "intimacy." (These moments are known as "blow jobs." These women are known as "awesome.")

Nevertheless, I couldn't bring myself to just do the whole shot at once, so I started out with a little girly sip. And the truth is it's not that bad at all. It tastes like milk, just slightly more sweet. And just slightly more making me want to gargle with Clorox and assume the fetal position while I question my life.

Now, while I may have issues with drinking this stuff, I have been a huge fan of its packaging for years. You may be interested to know that breast milk is now available in a variety of convenient sizes:

from the portable, half-pint container...

to the more economical one gallon jugs.

To make things more interesting, and a little bit easier on myself, I decided to break out the Hershey's syrup and whip up some chocolate breast milk.

This time I just knocked the shot right back, and two words immediately came to mind: Yoo Hoo. It tasted just like good ol' Yoo Hoo. I almost want to say that drinking breast milk isn't so bad, except the other two-word phrases that also came to mind were "stomach pump" and "kill me."

I'm officially leaving all future breast milk drinking in the capable hands of my baby boy -- the one guy who now gets to second base with my wife way more than I do. But, I don't mind. I love that little asshole.

(All volumes of Steve, Don't Eat It can be found here.)

Steve, Don't Eat It! Vol. 6

Natto

I recently came across a container of fermented soybeans in the supermarket. I don't mean an old container of soybeans some stockboy forgot to toss. These are fermented-on-purpose soybeans from Japan. That's what Natto is.

I remembered hearing about this stuff on Iron Chef one time when it was the secret ingredient. The judges in the show were commenting on what a great job the chefs had done to "supress the smell" of the natto. I'm no Iron Chef, but I've got a clever way to supress the smell. Don't put it in your fucking food. I might not win "Battle Natto," but I promise you my dinner won't smell like stank-ass soybeans.

I found it slightly unsettling that the sealed styrofoam container had creepy little airholes in it. As if what was inside needed to breathe. I dared to lift the lid, which made me regret that I needed to breathe. The natto was coated in some kind of sick slime and had the complex yet playful aroma of a dumpster in July.

Actually, the little pile inside looked kinda like baked beans. It also smelled kinda like baked beans. If they were baked in the filthy heat of Satan's asshole.

This particular batch was made by a company in Japan called Shirakiku. I haven't been able to determine if Shirakiku is a food manufacturer, or just a store that sells gag gifts and practical jokes. It might be both.

Not unlike Michael Jackson, these harmless soybeans had undergone some kind of hideous transformation. They were now a freakish version of their former selves. (Which, coincidentally, should also be kept away from your children.)

The most disturbing aspect of this stuff is it seems to get "activated" when you stir it. What I mean by this is, (and I may actually weep, but...) the slimy coating on the beans develops into stringy, stretchy, marshmallow-like strands that will forever haunt my dreams.

Basically, if you move it back and forth enough, you're left with a gross, sticky mess. (Hey, natto and I have at least one thing in common!) And now that I think about it, that's exactly what it looks like the pranksters back at Shirakiku did into my beans. You guuuys!

I force-fed myself a big ol' spoonful, and found it to be slightly rancid and extremely bitter. Unfortunately, swallowing didn't help dissipate the flavor because the strings of bean jizz melted, coating my mouth and lips with a glistening sheen of sadness.

The entire experience is difficult to describe, but if you can remember back to the very first time you made out with a hobo's ass, it's a lot like that.

What I find most hilarious is that there is an expiration date on the package. What could they possibly expect to happen to the product on this date THAT HAS NOT ALREADY OCCURRED?!!!

Also, nestled in this mound of compost was a li'l packet of mustard. In its place, I would strongly suggest a written apology.

I do have one last theory about the date on the package. It may be an expiration date, but not for the beans. If you finish the container, that's the day you die.

(All episodes of "Steve, Don't Eat It!" can be found here.)