Half-cocked on red wine, I went to the grocery store with the following list of items I was required to purchase:

Cheetos (original, non-puffy variety)

Amy’s Mac & Cheese

California Pizza Kitchen Thai Pizza (TM)

I sauntered by the closed-down seafood section and found a bin roiling with the first decent crawfish crop of the six month season (crawfish are in season during months that don’t end in “r”, props to Claire for the mnemonic). I picked out the angriest few the way non-coastal types would pick out unpopped popcorn kernels, except the diametric opposite.

I plunged those feisty bugs into ice cold salted water to remove whatever was left of the gulf that lay within. I boiled those sea-bugs, and I’m about to eat them. I saw each one of their beady eyes, I sized them up the way a politician would, kissing babies, pumping paws. I saw the frumpy check-out girl making faces at my sea-bugs, and said, “don’t look at them like that.”

If I were that tasty, I wouldn’t mind dying a quick death in boiling water. Especially if I cost less than an envelope of Orville Redenbacher. I heart poor people food.

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