Wait! (To quote Jim Morrison) There's Been a Slaughter Here!

I'm blogging from abroad tonight. The friend whose home we're at is holding forth on her opinion that one of society's problems is that food is "just too darn easy".

The food which she (call her Kara) has been preparing with such effort is formerly live Atlantic lobster. Not precisely a pitting of the cunning huntress against some formidable foe. As she herself admits: "Lobsters are basically spiders".

These particular spiders have, thanks to the miracle of modern jet fuel, been plucked dewy-fresh from their watery homes, transported hypothermic and stunned across the country, and after an agonizing wait, plunged into boiling water.

I was more or less on board until they (the SO, the SO's Mum [hereinafter referred to as SOM] and Kara) named them (Blanche, Fred, and Gabby). I'm not a seafood fan, so am contenting myself with a steak, which I have named Lulubelle, in honour of its former owner, who died peacefully in her sleep and donated her body to gastrophysics.

As I write this, the three formerly living creatures have been reduced to forlorn bits of carapace and a fishy smell, along with the odd glob of melted butter. Kara is wearing a certain amount of arthropod (following her demonstration of the Acadian Blowjob), and slivers of lobster meat adorn the carpet, furniture, and walls.

One truly has to respect the struggle betwixt predator and prey which has taken place. I imagine the scene:

A dense and savage urban jungle. Focus in on a small but dangerous looking fishmonger's{what--they don't have fishmongers anymore? Okay--a small but dangerous boutique food shop(pe).}Enter Kara the Huntress.

Kara: Hi Andre. I've got three guests coming for dinner--do you have any lobster?

Andre: Behold. o mighty Huntress--the Lobsters of Death!

Kara: (Peering into tank) Oooh! They're so cute! I'll have that one, that one, and that one over there.

Andre: As always, they are no match for your animal instincts. I shall deliver them to you. $26.99 please.

After this gargantuan struggle, the Huntress retires to her 11th-floor lair to gloat over the kill and a martini. Guests arrive, bearing pot (no, no, the other sort) and the unfortunate creatures are boiled alive, disembowelled and devoured.

In comparison, my steak is nearly humane!

But seriously folks--I wanted to apologise. Much as I intensely dislike the man who currently warms the chair in the Oval Office, I have been less than civil in matters which should be discussed in a civilised debate, regardless of the manners or morals of one's opponents.

An apology then, to those of you who cannot share my eminently rational and reasonable views. Truly, I intend to persuade you of my correctness rather than yell at you as have the run-of-the-mill commentators.

Of Bikes and Biking
I just acquired another motorcycle. Indeference to my advanced years and theoretical maturity it's only a 70 cc. That is, slightly larger than GWB's . . . hang on--not congenial of me, sorry.

But it's a truly oddball bike. And in fact those were the approximate words used by one of the three or four experts I've spoken to so far: "Oooh--that's a rare bird!"

Translation: Anything you want for this machine, including light bulbs, is going to have to be imported from Japan, or possibly custom-made. We are talking DOLLAR$$$$$$.

But I think it'll run, once I clean out the tank and carbs, and find a battery for it, after I figure out what voltage the electrical system is . . .

Gotta go. Beer beckons. More beer, in fact, beckons.