Where's The Walrus When You Need Him?

Damn Oysters

"The time has come," El Capitan said,
"To talk of many things:
Of cats--and canned food--and Pepto Bismol--
Of lettuce--and blingblings--
And why the day is boiling hot--
And whether weasels have springs."

OK, enough torturing of Lewis Carroll. Been a weird couple of days. Ate some smoked oysters over the weekend, and have not quite been the same since. I thought the raw ones were the ones that could floor you, in months that don't have a Tuesday in 'em, or something like that.

I'd had the can kicking around in the cupboard for ages. I'm pretty sure it made the migration down from Dallas way back when. I can only surmise that the wandering spirits of those oysters finally found there way here from Singapore, and were dancing about the cans just waiting for me to consume their earthly hulls so they could at long last have the peace they craved.

I'll spare the yucky details. Suffice it to say that if today hadn't been a half-day at work, I'd be collapsed over my desk moaning about colonic ejectamenta and calling for my emergency backup pants.

I'm off to bed. I'll probably wake up around midnight with an odd craving for a fried oyster po-boy sammich, but I'll likely just roll over and go back to sleep. Oysters are off the menu for a few months, I think.