Yogurt

This delicious jell is refrigerated and sealed in a plastic cylinder. The foil peels off; the culture spits and burps. You dip your spoon in and pull it out.

On it is a blubbering mass with chunks of fruit encased within. Strawberries stare at you like red eyes as it enters your mouth. It looks like a great chasm when you open it to admit entry. Stalactites and stalagmites hang at the tips of the cave.

The yogurt slops inside. But you don't chew. You just slurp it around for a few seconds, enjoying its chilled refreshment. Then you swallow. And it just slithers down your throat, uncaring.

For it is the most indifferent of all the foods, since its milk body was warped by bacteria. Afflicted with sickness, disfigured beyond recognition, the former milk now wishes for death. You should be only too happy to oblige.