hi, tony. im not a lobster, im a crayfish, and im a self-reproducing female.
please just send me back to hell.
i have a bone to pick with you, mister.
skip it. just shoot me in the head. right now.
what do you do for a living, really.
im a butler.
come on, really.
im a sous chef.
here i am a self reproducing crayfish, a talking one at that, and youre going to sit there and bullshit me?
im telling you, i make some badass sous.
what you arent is a writer. and i want to know why.
probably because if i actually wrote for a living, i probably wouldnt be talking to a fucking crayfish on my blog at ten thirty at night.
im a non-fucking crayfish.
you are what you eat, i suppose.
what do you eat, anyway?
what are you talking about?
im a bottom dweller, holmes. a janitor of the sea floor.
exactly, now if i had anything other than shit-plucking claws, dont you think i would do something other than what i have been doomed to do each day?
like had what?
like had HANDS, asshole. if i had hands, i wouldn’t eat fish turds each day. i would eat sandwiches. tostadas!
you’d probably need a bigger mouth though, too.
go ahead and rub it in, why dont you?
my point is, you have hands, not claws.
so dont eat shit for a living.