James Is Mourned With Mustard

Sausage is rarely just one thing; these sausages are a mixture of Jimmy, jalapeños, garlic and fennel. We eat him with a whole damn jar of sauerkraut each, liberal squirts of mustard and absolutely no eye contact between the us. We try very hard to keep our clothes nice while Jimmy’s shamefully tasty juices are just bursting from the sausages. James Norton left this world knowing that this absurdity was awaiting us, signed on a note, inherited by his poor son Phillip. He finished first, a dutiful son.

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