Brussels Sprouts

Brussels Sprouts or, Brussel Sprouts, are the most disgusting vegetable ever invented. Yet some idiots continually try to push them on people, even going so far as to consider the little balls of green shit as "fine dining."

"But they are great when you fry them in butter and then top them with bacon and cheese!!!"

This is not an excuse. A rotten pile of flea covered cancerous camel buttholes would benefit with butter, bacon, and cheese. I'm not eating that either.

Just look at them over there on the right. Smug little repulsive wads of malignancy.

The Science

The Brussels Sprout is a member of the Gemmifera cultivar group of cabbages (Brassica oleracea), grown for its edible buds. The leaf vegetables are typically 0.6–1.6 inches in diameter and resemble miniature cabbages.^[1] The Brussels sprout has long been popular in Brussels, Belgium, from which it gained its name. Also, this further proves that Belgians are stupid.^[2]

The Rant

<weishaupt> brussels sprouts are the dog shit of the vegetable world
<weishaupt> in vegetable world, people step in brussels sprouts and go "aw shit...god damn it"
<weishaupt> and then fetch a stick to pick the brussels sprouts out of the treads of their shoes

Anecdotal Evidence^[3]

Dark would come and I would walk back over to my yard, put the football away in the garage and go into the kitchen. Mom was like a statue. She held the same pose over the stove my whole childhood, calmly waiting for something to finish cooking. What she cooked was usually quite good, but occasionally she would slip something nasty in, as if to keep us alert, awake.

Summer nights might be especially surprising. Vegetables were in great quantity because my father had a garden in the backyard as well as one out at our farm. The summer I was five, dad tried growing brussels sprouts out at the farm. The spring had been real dry, no rain had come and the ground was a slab of stone. But the brussels sprouts came up out of the ground, pods of proud vegetation. Mom steamed them in water at the stove and then mixed in big globs of margarine right before she put them down on the table.

I didn't like the look of them. The rest of the meal was normal. The chicken was fried like normal and the noodles were the same. Even the salad had the same dressing on it like every night.

I stared at the brussels sprouts.

Three of them sitting like green tumors on my plate. Green turds left by some garden fairy.

"Try them," my dad rumbled.

I poked at them with my fork.

"Just take a bite, dear," my mother said.

I didn't say anything. I didn't do anything. I just sat in my place at the table and ate the food I was used to. My sisters noticed that I wasn't eating the brussels sprouts.

"Mom, Adam isn't gonna eat them," one said.

"Well he will sit there and not get up until he does," my dad said.

Everybody was done. They had all eaten their chicken and their noodles and had even eaten the brussels sprouts. My plate was clean also, except for the three brussels sprouts that looked somehow like dried testicles that had been ripped out and dumped on my plate.

I heard my mother talking to my dad over by the sink as they rinsed their plates.

"When I bring out desert he will eat them," my mother whispered with a nod.

They came back to the table. My brother was busy kicking me in the leg, but he stopped when mom set the desert plate down in front of us. She had made strawberry short cake. Everybody heaped up their plates with the pound cake and mom went around the table with a can of whipped cream, spraying out mounds of the stuff on top of the glistening berries. When she got to my plate she frowned at me and passed on by.

"Adam, honey," she said. "You won't get any shortcake until you have at least one bite of your brussels sprouts."

I didn't say anything.

My sisters were having the time of their lives as they made loud lip smacking sounds over their cake. In minutes the desert was gone, inside them. I would not get any.

I sat at the table and hated them all for that. I wanted to pick up the little green things and throw them at them. My mother scooped up the dishes and took them to the sink. She cleaned the kitchen and left, turning off the light as she went.

"You can't get up until you try one bite," she said from the gleaming doorway.

I sat. The small clock on the stove read 9:07. I had been in the chair, motionless for three hours and it was now bedtime. My father entered the kitchen to get a beer. He snapped on the light and a look of wonder crossed his features.

"What the hell?" he asked loudly. "You're still there! Adam, just take a bite!"

I crossed my arms and sighed. They would not bust my will on this matter. The brussels sprouts would not win. Could not win.

"Oh all right then," dad said. "C'mon."

He lifted my up out of the chair using my arms as handles and set me on the linoleum floor. "Go to bed," he said.

I trudged up the stairs like a weary soldier. I was tired. Beating the brussels sprouts had taken a lot out of me. I brushed my teeth and went into my small room. I could hear my sisters in the next room. They were listening to some of my brother's records and it sounded like they were dancing around. Finally, one of them gave a piercing shriek and then they both exploded with shrill laughter.

I got out of bed and walked down the hall to their room. I poked my head in the door and raised my voice up louder than the stereo.

"Shut up!" I said.

References

↑ Or green tumors
↑ Except for their Ales.
↑ https://ragebook.blogspot.com/2009/02/mccoy-road.html

mmmmm, Brussels Sprouts is a part of a series on Food

[1] Or green tumors

[2] Except for their Ales.

[3] ttps://ragebook.blogspot.com/2009/02/mccoy-road.html

[1]

[2]

[3]

Brussels Sprouts

Contents

The Science

The Rant

Anecdotal Evidence^[3]

References

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Brussels Sprouts

The Science

The Rant

Anecdotal Evidence[3]

References

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Anecdotal Evidence^[3]