Haggis, the survival sausage of Scotland, is made from sheep livers, hearts, kidney parts, oats, motor oil, cobwebs and lord knows what else. It oozed darkly in a pot at the end of the banquet table at Bruce Ridley’s annual party in honor of Robert Burns, a Scottish poet who once wrote an “Ode to a Haggis,” which means he obviously had a lot of time on his hands. Anyway, the Ridley party is a fun-filled evening of scotch whiskey, bagpipes, kilts and great conversation.

And haggis.

Can’t have a Burns bash without haggis.

In the spirit of foreign relations, I put a forkful on my plate and …

“Here, let me document this,” said my friend, Dave McCann, aiming his iPhone like a sniper.

Invisible cooties crawled up my neck as I opened my chew hole and gave the haggis a new home.

I chewed – a little. And swallowed, trying to ignore the heavy taste of stewed innards.

Prediction: There will never be a McHaggis restaurant chain.

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