Thursday, January 16, 2003
It's been Sixteen Days Since I Don't Know When
It's time for me to entertain myself by describing gross wet things again. My big sister loathes the word "moist." She shivers and recoils at its use.
My visit to the cajun castle last night brought to mind visions of scuttling squishy sea critters. I wonder what sort of sound a living lobster makes as it hits the surface of boiling water. What's it like to salivate over a pile of fish on the deck, all of them caught in a net, out of water, gasping and flopping as their lidless eyes dry up and wrinkle? Can a squid imagine a marionette as the wiry net weaves its tentacles into knots and its ink gushes like blood, staining the deck black? What sort of thrill do people get from eating the green and red stomach contents of a lobster? I eat the claws and tail only. Not the tamale, as they call it, even if it strongly resembles guacamole. I ate ten lobsters in one sitting once. My little sister ate six. Lobster Holocaust. I've never eaten a raw oyster before. With that hard shell around it, it must be like performing cunnilingus on a severe burn victim. Talk about a hot ass.
Time to reheat the leftovers.
2:58 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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