December 14, 2006

“This is Fred,” I said. Laura just smiled.

Fred, the frozen mackerel, plopped himself into a frying pan and his flesh exploded into dozens of blistering tumors.

“Oh, look at poor Fred,” I said. “Once he swam in velvety seas, so full of life and joy. He was a strapping young thing — an immensely fuckable being of pure desire. Now he’s just a cancerous mass.”

Laura looked at me weird as though I just confessed I had some sort of fish fetish. I ate Fred’s tumored flesh and cried; he was yummy.