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.


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