the brown acid

When I was little, I spent some time on my Uncle's dairy farm in western South Dakota. My brother was working as a farmhand for him that summer and my Uncle and Aunt were such nice people that it was a very popular place to be. Cousins and neighbor kids scrambled over fences and chased the chickens, avoiding the evil flock of geese. My Uncle grew apples, cherries and plums. My Aunt tended a massive garden of tomatoes, cucumbers and corn.
While visiting, I used the second bed in my brother's room. He had a record player and he would play records at night. A favorite was an LP of the Woodstock Festival. I remember the guy over the PA saying, "Do not eat the brown acid." Apparently it was bad acid. It was years before I even knew what he meant or what "acid" was for that matter. I thought, who would eat acid anyway? Wouldn't it hurt or at least burn a little?
Well, yesterday, I think I ate some brown acid. I left some delivery pizza out overnight then put it in the fridge in the morning. When I got home from work, pooped after a long day, I microwaved a slice and headed for bed. Six hours later, it was a jailbreak. The pizza wanted out and it got it's way. More than once. Several times in fact. It fought the Pepto Bismal, and won. It even refused water. Eventually, it escaped entirely. I emerged from a virtual fugue state about 4:00 PM. A day lost to the brown acid. Don't eat it.