Monday, May 16, 2011


Or a post about them.

So every now and again I get too busy to do you lovely people a weekly update. That's where my friends come in. See, they're just as weird as I am so I figure you might get a kick out of them once in a while. This being said, let me introduce you all to a dear friend of mine. Quin.

He likes to write and works for free. Which makes him the perfect guest poster. Really.


The condemned man watched with uncomprehending vision as I looked up the best way to kill him. Unable to talk, likely struggling to even breathe, he flailed helplessly next to me while I sorted out the execution methods. Boiling, I had thought when I first took on the task, would be best. No, wrong.  No impersonal death, this. They said I had to do it by hand.  Stab him, or peel his body apart while he was stunned.

 For a three dollar blue crab this was starting to seem like a whole lot of horrifying fucking work.

 I've been eating ramen and cheap chicken soup day in and out, so when I saw this little crab, cheap, I leapt on it. Crab? Fuck yeah! And I can just boil him!  So I go to the internet to find out a good way to spice the water to cleanly kill the little guy. I say cleanly, I mean for me, I mean he's going to be boiled alive.  But he's a crab. Fuck him, he's a hockey puck with delusions of grandeur.

 So I set him down on the carpet to enjoy his last time in the exercise yard.  He watched me look up his demise and I think ate my carpet.

 "Okay, so it says here I take water and put ice... in it. Which is supposed to stun you." So far so good, maybe its like hypnotizing a lobster, so its more humane, "And then what I do is, while you're stunned and can't claw me, I... they want me to pull your shell off." His fucking shell. While he's alive. I can't do that! The fuck?! What the fuck is this, cooking for maniacs? Jesus.

 He looked at me. I looked at him. I decided it was time to fill the tub. Yeah, the tub! He'll be my housecrab! That's normal, right? To wuss out of killing a meal and making it into a pet? I could feed him scraps, and take him for walks on a leash. I was brought up in the suburbs of Chicago by a Jewish mother. The closest I ever got to even remotely hurting my own food was making fun of the presentation of a lasagna.  I don't hunt, I agonize how to have someone else cook it.

 So there I was and there he was.  I had, at this point, stopped IMing friends freaking out over having to kill the crab (I left that out to look like less of a pussy). "EMBER! TAMAR! I CAN"T DO THIS!" etc.

So I carried him into the kitchen, cleared a spot out, and took a deep breath. There. We. were.

I'm poor. He's expensive.

I'm hungry. He's delicious.

I've been eating ramen all week.  He's a good source of protein.

Fuck it, lets do this.

Time to do the deed. Time to kill the crab. Kill the brain they said. Ice water (No ice. Goddamnit.) So fill a pot with cold water, dump him in, and kill him.  Me and him. Mano a mano. The great Jewish hunter rides again!

My weapon: A heavy chisel bladed survival knife. I had at this point called a friend of the female persuasion who had begun laughing at me and my timidness; Now was my time to impress the weak female with my battle prowess. She would see that I was the hunter. The provider.  I wanted this nice and easy so I put the tip of the blade against the top of his shell. One good hit, he'd be dead, no pain and AH GOD HE'S FLAILING I'M SORRY MR CRAB STOP KICKING I'M SORRY SHIT SHIT HIT HIM AGAIN GOD DAMN HE'S PADDLING WHAT DID I DO I'M A MONSTER POOR MR CRAB!

 When I came to, I realized I had left the knife in, was across the room with eyes like dinner plates, and he was flailing. Turns out that it was just spasms.  Mr Crab was no longer with us. He was in fact, an ex-crab. All I saw, however, was the knife was fully in and he was still moving. I became rapidly convinced I had only angered him so hit it again. And again. At this point I had realized I didn't have an ordinary crab. This was the omega crab. The avenging crab. If I did not kill it, it would slay me and feast upon my flesh, so I did the most manly thing I did.

I stuck him in the fucking freezer and hid for five minutes.

Oh fuck you, the crab survived a combat knife. You’d be scared too. Don't you judge me, goddamnit, he was huge and angry and now had a knife.

Finally, mercifully, the moving stopped. I peeked into the freezer, and the beast was dead. And so, like a triumphant warrior, Tamar's laughter in the back, I put him into the boiling pot. No, I wasn't crying.

I did feel bad though, poor little guy. I mean I took a knife and took his life, I killed him and he never di...

Goddamn. This is good crabmeat.

Moral of the Story: Murder is okay if they're tasty.


Vir said...


Harlequin said...

I cannot, however, say in all honesty that anyone said "Oleoleo" during the cooking, so I'm unsure if we can call it a proper crab battle.