I love liverwurst. I often crave it. I have murdered to obtain it. Short-sighted people have foolishly sought to come between me and liverwurst, and have paid a terrible price for it. I sometimes carry liverwurst around in my pants pockets. Then, when I am rebuffed by a woman, I can say to myself: it was the liverwurst. I roll liverwurst into little balls and hit unsuspecting bus riders in the back of the neck with it. Occasionally a thrown liverwurst ball will fall down the back of their shirts, and their efforts to retrieve it will only speed its course down, down, until it joins its brothers. My favorite way of preparing liverwurst is to get two pieces of white bread--yes, I know, just shut up--and place a slice of liverwurst on one of them, first taking care to remove the yellow band of plasticy stuff from around it, otherwise it will entangle itself in my innards, and when they cut me open, they will find in among the buttons, twis-ties, Ace combs, cigarette butts, barettes, bottle caps, styrofoam cups, lottery tickets and Red Bull cans a nest of these things and they will say "aha!" and lick the tips of their pencils and begin filling out the "Proximate Cause of Death" box. Then I will spread a generous smear of Gulden's Yellow Mustard--yes, yellow mustard, shut up again--on the other piece of white bread, and conjoin the twain. And while I am eating it I will watch a lecture on Ted.com by Mark Bittman on the devastating effects on the world that eating like this has, and the anxiety and shame that this lecture produces will cause me to secrete acids which help me digest the liverwurst. And I will be reminded that no pleasure is unadulterated: it's always a mash of constituent pieces, the good and the bad, some of which would be revolting to think on. Exactly like liverwurst.