Lutefisk is an abomination that proves Evil still stalks the land. It offends and destroys all the senses.
Sight: It looks like boogers or broiled phlegm.
Smell: It reeks like a rat decomposing under the cellar furnace.
Touch: It has the lovely consistency of a corpse’s innards that have finally exploded in the hot summer Sun, but you’re a dectective and have to search through the body with your glove-covered hands to find the bullet that the killer used to commit this cowardly murder.
Taste: Oh gosh, you’ll want to set your razor to its highest level and shave off your taste buds off your tongue just to prevent tasting the next bite.
Sound: After eating lutefisk, just the mere mention of it will set off PTSS.
It’s been a half century since I had lutefisk. Not enough time has elapsed.
I give up lutefisk every year for Lent. I have a will of iron. I have never even been tempted to backslide.
If you ever are invited to a dinner when lutefisk is served, my I suggest that you join the French Foreign Legion and politely send your regrets from some combat zone.