• The text of your story so I can post it on the site.
• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.
• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #200 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.
• A recording of your story in .mp3 format. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

Charlie the Gnome had been working hard all morning. First he went to the market and traded what donuts he had for the ingredients. Then back in his small cottage he had soaked and roasted and chopped and mixed and stuffed the various items until he had several plump round sausage. Finally, he put them in a pot of boiling water. Their foul smell filled the cottage. Charlie went outside. He looked lovingly at his ravaged donut orchard. In a couple of hours her could hang the Haggis among the donut trees. That should keep the Bugbears away, Charlie thought.

"Welcome to Haggis Anonymous. My name's Bob." "Hi, Bob," the crowd said. "It started with bridies and a utilikilt," Bob said. "Just a little something at the Renfair. Then I tried blood pudding - and liked it." Murmurs of sympathy came from the seated members. "Before long, I wore tartan and piped bagpipe music into my office." Bob paused. "I'm a dentist." The others contemplated the combined horror. "Then I ate haggis. Every meal. Snacks, even," Bob said. "I went clean one year ago." "How?" the new kid asked. Bob smiled. "Eating the closest thing to haggis that isn't. Hotdogs."

Today we play our favorite game, "You taste it before we tell you what is in it". Remember when you thought Chocolate meat had chocolate in it? You might like this as much as balut. Smell the aroma. Tastes It. Does it tastes good? Are you sure you want to know what is in it? It is like sausage made of sheep with oatmeal and onions then cooked in the natural casing of a sheep's intestine. Now will you want haggis as often as you ask for Okonomiyaki, if there are any leftovers we can put it in Okonomiyaki.

Having no female heirs, James R. McTavish laid down in his will that a closely held family recipe for haggis would go to cousin Mavis. Mavis looked sheepish. "Haggis?" she asked. Jim Junior whispered in her ear. Mavis, a dyed-in-the-wool vegetarian made a horrible face. Much to everyone's surprise, Mavis took the recipe and opened a chain of Scottish restaurants. "I never thought she'd have the guts," said Jim, who invested much of the family fortune. Two months later, Mavis was on the lam, absconding with the money. "Certainly pulled the wool over my eyes," Jim lamented.

The handcuffs felt cold against her wrists - almost like a new bracelet. She figured they must be real ones, even though she wasn’t able to see anything through the blindfold. There was a sweet, chocolatey smell in the air - she soon found out why when the sauce dripped onto her chest. His tongue was soft on her skin, then she felt his finger on her lips. When she opened her mouth, she felt his weight shift, as if he wanted to feed her. The very second the smell reached her nose, she shouted out loud… “Haggis??? ARE YOU CRAZY!”

"You are trying my patience Jack, first with "getting back to your cultural roots" and now this "localvore" eating. "Sorry, luv, but, ain’t they cute?" "Yes, spring lambs are adorable, but soon they mature into summer sheep, then they’re winter mutton. Where are you going to keep ‘em? In the dog kennel? Jack glances towards the spare bedroom - "You haven’t used the eliptical in a bit..." No! Absolutely not. No way am I going to pretend our three story walk up is a croft on the moors just so you can make haggis for Burns Night next January, Jack Shay.

"Shush, Jamie, ye'll scare them awa'," said Auld Tam. "But uncle, the haggis..." insisted Jamie. "Hold yer weesht, boy. Dinnae frighten them!" "Uncle Tam, you wanted to know when the delivery came," said the boy, hauling a clear plastic bag full of intestines onto the table. Tam gave the boy a deep scowl and pointed to the door. Jamie's shoulders drooped as he walked off. "Shall I put the oatmeal and sheeps' stomachs for the haggis through here too?" he asked. Tam abandoned his story and buried his head in his hands as the tartan-clad crowd of tourists fled, green-faced and retching.

Have you ever wondered where those disgusting cultural delicacies came from? Well, I’m gonna tell you anyway: Every culture hates or fears foreigners, and each developed a way to intimidate them. Drinking games didn’t last long. It became a contest of edible one-up-man’s-ship, a culinary arms race, a game of gastronomic chicken. But you won’t recognize any chicken on that battlefield. The Britons have Blood Pudding. Hispanics have Menudo. Southerners have Chitlins. The Scots entered the war with Haggis. Koreans have Kimchi. The world didn’t know what to do when the Chinese brought animal penises. An immediate armistice was demanded.

It's untested! You mustn't! Chocolatier Charlie Bucket's fanciful R&D department was at a loss for fresh ideas. So he dipped into that tired old "golden ticket" well once more, summoning children to the chocolate factory. The winners were as hopeless as ever. Among them, Scots McTavish grabbed a hunk of red glop on a counter and ate it. In theory, you ate it and tasted whatever you most wanted to. "Mmm ... mother's haggis," he began, and then stopped as he became encased in a sac. In reality, everyone tasted haggis. Because they became haggis. The oompah-loompahs rolled him away.

Robert sat at the table and glared irritably across the food at his parents. "I hate Haggis," he said. His mother looked surprised and asked, "Why do you say that, Robert?" "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. " I mean, who cares if Harry, Hermoine, and Ron love him so much. He's stupid and irrisponsible. I don't see why Dumbledorf keeps him around." "Dear, the character in the Harry Potter books is Hagrid. Haggis is a traditional scottish dish made from sheep guts, onions and oatmeal." "Oh. Well then. Compared to that, Hagrid's not such a bad guy."

I won an all-expenses paid trip to Scotland. I saw the castles, the moors... the whole works. I even ate haggis. I found it delicious. After I cleared my third plate, I asked the waiter what kind of animal a haggis is. “It's a fierce and vicious animal,” he said. “They use the guts for food and the skins and bones for bagpipes.” “Hunt?” I asked. I love to hunt. So, I'm out on the moors, shotgun in one hand and pair a metal spoons in the other, smacking them against my leg. SHHHH! What was that?

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site.
• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.
• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #199 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.
• A recording of your story in .mp3 format. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

Hey there, please keep that bag behind the counter. Personal? I wont open it, I promise. It just all these priceless books, people steal them. No, you don't look like a thief. I make everyone leave their bags. Rare occult books? There in the back. Kitty, stay away from that bag. Shoo cat, stop hissing. Leave that drawstring be! You've opened the bag, oh dear. Sir! There's a shoggoth seeping out of your bag, covered with mouths. Sir, I know you said that, but the cat opened it. Please sir, control your shoggoth. Store policy, whatever you chew you buy.

Assholes have destroyed everything I want to say to you. You're special to me. I've never felt like this before. I would do anything for you. They sound cheesy. They're all true. But you don't believe me. I understand that. I know why you don't believe me. I know you've been played before. I know they said all those lies to you. I know. They confessed. They're inside, chained to chairs. Every guy who has ever lied to you, who has ever hurt you. Here's the knife. Do whatever you want to them. You choose. Anything. Just believe me again.

A pile of coins were poured out of a small brown bag down on the table. Johnny looked at them and was silent. “Well? Are you going to take any?” Johnny looked up with a confused look on his face. “Which ones can I have?” The man gave a chuckle. “Whatever you choose…” Johnny started to reach out for the largest coin. “but not that one!” Johnny pulled his hand back and started to reach for another large coin. “Not that one either!” Johnny sat silently and then threw a dagger into the pirate’s forehead. I will take them all.

Daddy gave me good advice when I‘d ask him. When I started investing, he urged “Plastics”. Later, he convinced me to hold off on marrying when I was infatuated with Scott Peterson. He said, “That boy ain’t right in the head”. Daddy nailed that one dead to rights. But when he said, “What ever you choose to make a career in, honey, make sure there is future growth potential”, I don’t think he had a clothing line in mind. After four years in the private sector, Bettina’s Big Boy Boxers is going public. Happily, business is busting at the seams.

When I was young back in the early two thousands they thought that we would never reside on other planets and brass Bikinis were just a sign of dated science fiction but here on our new planet they were a good idea at least in our summer because the planet is fulled with overly aggressive moths that eat any cloth or nonliving animal Hyde. In the winter we take the leather and cotton out of the vaults. Most of the women look great in their brass bikinis and they know it. My brass Lederhosen and brass hat are so styling.

My director is staring at me. He's made a note. I'll be hearing about this move for sure. Stage directions were John crosses to the bar and pours a cocktail, hands it off to Wendy with a flirtatious laugh. We've rehearsed it a thousand times. In the dress rehearsal, I get nervous. I trip on my ill-fitting shoes from the costume shop and instead of a flirtatious laugh I drive a stage knife into Wendy's side. A frenzy of activity, but my wife will survive. And maybe stop sleeping with the director. I pour the cocktail and drink it myself.

She came to me in the middle of the night, a perfumed cloud slipping her perfect body next to me the way she did in the days before we started having the nightly fights. The fights would be about jealousy. They would be about money. They would be about time spent, not spent, misspent. They were petty and they were spiteful. "Would you like to keep fighting, or would you like to make love," she said, her breath a throaty whisper that aroused me like nothing else. I thought. "Whatever you choose," she said, "I'll be gone in the morning."

"Here you go Johnny, some nice asparagus in brandy sauce. You like asparagus, don't you?" Johnny looked at his mother and just shook his head. "Ok then, here's some creamed spinach." He made a disgusted face and shook his head. She pointed at the table and said, "You have all this food to choose from, just pick one you like and get on with it." He grabbed a handful of beets and threw them at the canvas on the isle. They slid slowly down leaving long red smears. "Thank you Johnny, that will bring us $1000 at the art gallery."

He awoke with a groan. “What a night,” he thought. His mind brought him memories through the haze. “Mm, ‘Lacee’.” Through his hangover, he marveled that someone so hot had gone home with him, but he wasn’t about to complain. He got up without disturbing his impromptu bedmate. As he stumbled toward the bathroom, he tripped on something fabric. It wasn’t silky, lacy or sexy. It was beige, stretchy and utilitarian: Spanx. He scanned the room: push-up bra, falsies, auburn wig. He quickly realized that last night’s “hotness” was not in his bed, but in pieces all over his room.

Leroy's attorney waved the lawbook. “My client chooses 'Death by buffalo herd.'” The judge sighed. “There are no buffalo. Hunted to extinction.” “Exactly,” grinned the lawyer. The case was fought well into the Supreme Court. And, with the help of celebrities and environmentalists, he won. The legislature closed the loophole, but Leroy was safe. Or so he thought. Geneticists extracted DNA from preserved buffalo hides and spliced them with bison to clone and breed them. Years later, Leroy faced the stampede. “Cruel and unusual punishment!” he shrieked. “Shouldn't have chosen it then,” said the judge.