Fish Abuse

I went out to dinner with my wife last night.  We went to this Irish pub across town—nice place.  I got the fish and chips.  She got the battered shrimp and fries.

My fish was quite good and I believe my wife enjoyed her meal as well, but I have to say that I feel bad that the shrimp came from a world of violence.  I’m not sure how you prepare battered shrimp, but I believe it would taste just as good without going through the whole beating that clearly leaves an emotional scar underneath the physical pounding.

My fish was gently placed into the basket above the deep fryer, slowly lowered into the warm bath of oils, gently placed upon the plate to relax, rest, and cuddle up to the over-privileged side of chips.

My wife’s shrimp lived a short painful existence.  The abuse probably started as a youngster.  Abused as a child, the other shrimp wouldn’t let them play any shrimp games.  If only it would have learned to fly and pull a sled!

Its adult life bought a daily verbal assault.  The cook would ridicule it in front of the pampered scampi.  It never once was told just how beautiful it truly was.  I simply wish that all battered shrimp across the entire ocean would recognize that there is a place they can go for help.  Shrimp don’t have to live the battered life.

It was sad to see how the shrimp ended up.  Where my fish were honored to be served up on the same plate with hearty potato wedges, her shrimp were cast aside and left to fend themselves in silence with the strung out normal fries.

Stop the battering of shrimp.  There is a place to go for help.

Buy my books and a portion of the proceeds will go toward my next order of shrimp cocktail.

Food is Ready

I’m hungry.  And I’m really tired too.

Picture this scenario.  I’m alone in my house for the next hour or so.  The children are off doing their after school sports things.  My wife will be picking them up later, so I have a chunk of time to do whatever I feel like doing.  I choose to warm up some leftover macaroni and cheese from the refrigerator.  I pop it into the microwave and hit the appropriate buttons.  You know ones—the buttons that lead to the outer ring of noodles becoming a crispy scalding tongue branding little pile of hot pokers while leaving the inner pile of food near the same temperature as the inside of the refrigerator.

Two minutes.  Go.  That seems like a very long time since I’m just so tired.  I’ll just lie down on the couch and wait for the microwave to yell out its series of beeps letting me know that the food is now ready to be vigorously stirred in order to bring the whole pile of cheesy noodles to a nice lukewarm temperature.  My couch is calling me.  It’s in the living room.  I can see it from the microwave.  My home’s floor plan is laid out in with a wide open kitchen connected to the living room.  I can see and hear the microwave from the couch.  I’m going to rest until my food is ready.

I fell asleep in less than a minute and a half!  Unbelievable!  What an awesome super human power I possess.  Captain Sleepyhead at your service—ready to defend the rights of everyday sleepy humans spanning the globe.

I know I was fully asleep because the three long blasts of beeps from the microwave startled me awake.  My microwave was just a bit too happy to remind me that I was trying to feed my body and satisfy my hunger needs.  “Beep, Beep, Beep.  Um, sir?  I said Beep three times in a row.  Did you not hear me?  I finished petrifying the outer ring of noodles just the way you asked.  Hello?  Are you coming to get it now?”

I’m not so hungry now that my mind and body was fully lost to dreamland.  Forget it microwave.  Never mind.  I’ll visit you later.  I’m glad you understand.  I’m going to fall down into sleepy world once again.  I’ll bet this time I can achieve the complete state of sleep in under twenty seconds.  I’m just that talented.

Two more minutes pass by and the microwave expresses its desire to inform the world that it has completed its task like a good little microwave should.  This time the microwave chooses to simply issue a short simple beep.

“Beep!”  This tiny extra declaration that ‘food is ready’ is enough to wake me again from my deep slumber. Why, oh why, did I start the microwave?  I regret my actions with every fiber of my existence.  Oh my dear microwave, please understand that I no longer have the energy and ambition to tend to your pleading.

Two more minutes pass.  “Beep!”  Wow.  How do I keep falling asleep so fast?  Hey microwave, I know the food is done.  I know the food is still inside you.  You don’t see the refrigerator constantly telling me that it has food inside of it.  Quiet down.  The refrigerator doesn’t abuse its voice unless you leave the door open.  Your microwave door is closed.  So just relax.

“Beep!”  Has it been another two minutes already?  I’d get up and push the cancel button, but I think I turned into a zombie.  A really sleepy zombie—not the eat-your-face type.  More like an almost-dead twice zombie.  A re-fried zombie.

“Beep!”  Oh no, not again!  Someone help me, I’m trapped in an endless cycle of a barbaric self-imposed sleep deprivation torture scheme.  I think this is worse than water boarding.

“Beep!”  Dear Jesus, would you please intervene and cause a brief power outage in my neighborhood?  It only has to last long enough to reset the microwave.  Please?  I’ll sign up to sing with the choir.  I promise.

“Beep!”  Whoa!  This time I was dreaming that I was hearing the microwave pleading its case, “Mr. Sleepy, you just have to get up and eat your food.  I can’t store this plate in here.  The food will go bad.  I’m not a refrigerator.  Oh dear, what shall I do?  Beep!  Come on, I said Beep.  Pretty Beep?  Oh please, someone help me!  Beep!”

“Beep!”  Hey microwave!  Stop beeping!  I know my food is ready!  Can’t you see that I just don’t care anymore?  I’m sleeping!  Nothing ever bad has come from leaving food in the microwave after the heating has completed!  Why did the microwave people design this endless series of beeps?  Who was it?  I hate you microwave designer guy!

At this point I was jolted from sleep by the sound of the garage door going up.  My wife and kids were home.  In my sleepy stupor, I sprang to my feet to welcome them home—and to deny that I was napping.

“Hi everyone!  Welcome home!”

“Beep!”

“Oh hey look.  I just finished making dinner for all of us.”

Beep!  Buy my books.  Beep!