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Salmonella is like the Sherlock Holmes of bacteria – silent, sneaky, and it loves to leave you with a mystery. You eat a delicious meal, feel fine for hours, and then suddenly, it hits you like a ton of bricks. You become a detective in your own home, retracing your steps like, "Where did I go wrong? Was it the questionable street food or the expired mayo?" It's the ultimate whodunit, and the culprit is always that shady piece of lettuce that looked at you funny. I swear, if we had a Salmonella Detective Agency, we'd solve crimes faster than Sherlock with a microscope.
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I've decided that surviving a bout of salmonella should be a badge of honor. Forget skydiving or climbing Everest; I battled the microscopic ninjas in my stomach! I imagine it like a reality show: "Salmonella Survivor." Contestants gather around the toilet, strategizing their bathroom breaks like military operations. You'd have alliances forming over the last roll of toilet paper. "I'll trade you half a can of ginger ale for two Imodiums." And immunity challenges? Try keeping down a slice of plain toast without sprinting to the bathroom. It's a race against time and stomach acid, my friends.
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Having had salmonella once, you become more paranoid than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Suddenly, every meal feels like a potential trap. You start cooking chicken like you're defusing a bomb – with intense focus, sweating bullets, and praying you don't mess up. And don't get me started on potlucks. It's a potluck, not a game of Russian roulette! I'm there, inspecting the potato salad like it holds the nuclear launch codes. You'll see me at the buffet, giving the stink eye to the coleslaw like it personally insulted me. I've become the Salmonella Sheriff, and I'm not letting that bacteria bandit ruin my dinner.
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You ever feel like life is playing a game of Salmonella Roulette with you? You're just going about your day, innocently eating some chicken, and suddenly it's like, "Surprise! Salmonella might join the party!" It's the culinary version of walking through a minefield. One wrong move with that undercooked chicken, and suddenly your stomach is hosting the Olympics of intestinal gymnastics. I mean, who knew poultry could be so rebellious? It's like the bad boy of meats, always trying to keep you on your toes. My grandma used to say, "Cook it till it's dry as the Sahara," but I swear sometimes I feel like I'm chewing on the Gobi Desert.
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