Livers

Livers. They're delicious and I like to eat them. And I'm not speaking strictly of super expensive, fancy-schmancy foie gras either. In fact, I'm not talking about that at all. I'm waxin' poetic today over good old fashioned fried livers. Give me a cold ass beer and a plate of fried chicken livers and I'm happy as the proverbial pig in the proverbial shit. Give me a cold ass beer and some fried rabbit livers, and I'm a fatter, happier pig in fatter, happier shit. Now give me a whole mess of cold ass beer, then a plate full of fried rabbit livers and I'm King Pig. I'll go running around salutating everyone like my name is Wilbur and I've just learned that I won't be getting the axe come Fall. And I'll tell you why I like livers so much. I like to eat them because I respect those little guys.

Livers aren't giving up without a fight, and that's why they get my respect. Toss a handful of livers into a big rolling vat of grease and you better watch the F out. It's "Fire in the hole!" time, comrades. Livers naturally have a certain amount of water in them, so when that water hits the hot grease, a small little eruption occurs, sending little bullets of scorching hot napalm-like grease directly at my face. They're going to get eaten up, sure. But they're going to take someone down with them before it happens. I love that about them. Livers are like that rag tag bunch of mercenaries that never got the memo that the war is over. Whatever animal they came from is dead. The war is over, but they're still fighting. If fried livers went searching for Private Ryan, they wouldn't have lost Wade and Caparzo. They would've found him and got him the Hell, home, in half the time.

Livers rule.