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But wait, there's more.

There's just no polite way to say "Buy me things", is there?

Join codebastards, I dare you. Remember, codebastards are us.

I'm baded and jitter. So are these people. (And why not follow the previous, next, or random links?)

Need a band name?

Doug vs. Japanese Snack Foods: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

rant is where the heart is

diaryland: entry for 2001-07-19 (04:03:00)
In which our plucky young hero is a man with a mission.

I'm concerned, folks.

youradhere has decided to pack it in. Yes, that's right, Mr. Todd Levin thinks he's too busy for us. Well, Mr. Todd Levin, all I can say is...

...I know what you mean, cripes.

Please consider today's little essay to be my attempt at youradhere pastiche.

There is a chain of steakhouses here in Canada called The Keg. (Rumors that there is a chain of brew pubs called The Meat Locker are unsubstantiated at press time.) They are currently running a special called The Summer of Lobster, which includes a small sirloin steak and a half lobster for, I'm sure, a ridiculously low price.

Now, I'm going to tell you something that shocks and astounds many of my acquaintances: I grew up with cheap, plentiful lobster, and oh God do I hate the stuff.

See, Cape Breton life isn't all driving up and down the main drag past boarded-up storefronts and the occasional Protestant church. Good heavens, no. It also involves lobster fishermen. My parents went to school with a good number of people who would later grow up to fish for lobster on the Atlantic, and as such, we were constantly getting free lobster. Yes, free, zero dollars free. "Cripes, it's not like I care about just this one. Here. Take it." This same lobster could have sold for hundreds of dollars an ounce in Japan (or so I'm told) but instead we got it as an afterthought, the same way that you'll give a worn-out pair of shoes to Goodwill.

All this is said not to make you hate me (though perhaps you should), but to point out that I know my lobster, okay? I hate it, but I hate it from knowledge, not ignorance.

Now, back to the ad.

The ad is not very spectacular, really. It involves a talking lobster pleading with you to not order The Keg's new lobster special. Try the steak, it says. Medium rare, mm mm good. Don't listen to that madman announcer who's all hopped up on the goofballs. (This, by the way, is a paraphrase. The actual talking lobster does not say "mm mm good".)

Now, you may wonder how they found a talking lobster for this ad. That's not my concern; for all I know all lobsters talk, until they get caught in a trap and the despair of their situation sinks in, upon which point they fall into a nihilistic silence. No, the thing that worries me is that this talking lobster is bright red.

Those of you who did not grow up where lobster is free and plentiful may not know this, but the natural color of a lobster is not red. Normally, lobsters are greenish-blue in color. A red lobster is one that has been put in a pot of boiling water and cooked.

And yet, the talking lobster that The Keg uses is bright red. It's been boiled, folks. It's been baked. It's been cooked in some sort of way, and yet there it is, speaking the same English that you or I use every day. (Unless, of course, you are translating this page with an online translation service, in which case I feel it is my solemn duty to mess with your head by pink dog blurting avocado cooking ray hovercraft.)

The lobster is red -- is dead -- and still it talks. There is only one inescapable conclusion:

Lobster zombies walk among us!

Please, for the love of all that is holy, spread the word. Don't let this plague of undead crustaceans endure. Email your government representatives. Put flyers under windshield wipers. Run naked through shopping malls screaming "Lobster zombies walk among us!" at the top of your lungs. But whatever you do, don't let this stay secret.

Oh, and try the T-bone. It's deelish.

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