1. Wednesday, February 19, 2003

    hi happy mr. lobster man. 

    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’re annoying.

    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.

    ok, gross.

    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?

    sorry, crayfish.

    my point is, you have hands, not claws.


    so dont eat shit for a living.