It had to happen, sooner or later

They say bad things come in threes. Of course, there were 7 Police Academy movies (plus one, I shit you not, in production), so maybe they're wrong. But assuming they're not: We sold our soul to commemorate Arthur Miller's passing. We did a stuntman (tequila shooter where you snort the salt and squeeze the lime into your eye) to mourn Hunter S. Thompson's on-the-phone suicide. So we were just waiting for the next death of an old beast the ASPCA just wouldn't let us have for dinner.


Enter Bubba. A 22-pound lobster invariably referred to as Leviathan (pushing our co-blogger from being the 372nd most popular entity called "Levi" back down to 373rd), Bubba warmed hearts and gave pots everywhere size anxiety. CNN says he was 80-100 years old, while biologists pegged at closer to 50. Of course, CNN probably thinks the way to tell a lobster's age is to count his rings, so let's say it's 50. Of course Bubba would be awful to eat: tough, aged, and, well, by this point he had a face.

So the fish merchant "graciously" release him into the wild by selling him to Kipley's Believe It Or Not. Oh, a feel good story. What a great thing for me to have told you and you to have heard he's free as my prose in this sentence and certainly nothing could--

Oh, except he died. (Chicago Sun-Times obit headline: "It was shell of a life for 23-pound lobster." I'm sure if Bubba's family members were alive, sentient, and close to an internet connection or Sun-Times distribution venue they'd be offended at your finding levity in his death. Also at your making him 1 pd. fatter in death than in life). This tragedy, however, is an English Major/Joseph Campbell's wet dream. A hero struck down right as he's gaining prominence. He bowed at what we all realized was the peak of his career, without even inflicting upon us a tragedy of a 1-hour finale.

Now, though, I wonder about his new job being a shell at an aquarium. I'm not saying he's not up to it, I just have... reservations. First off, won't this give the millions of children who pass by his edutainment grave every year some skewed ideas about the immensity of your typical crustacean? To say nothing of nightmares? (I'm still unable to get a decent night's rest after I heard about using miniature horses as seeing eye dogs! Though that might be more from perpetual laughing than true fear.) But, really, I guess the biggest tragedy in all of this is that every epic hero (and I think it's obvious Bubba falls into this category) deserves a funeral pyre.


With maybe a nice Hollandaise?

Pissing In The Wind: What America's next sport will not be.

Pardon me for the tardiness: My back is currently burdened by monsters of network protocols. That being said, Foster and the Leviathan urinated amply. I guess what I have to add is largely a prediction of what will not become popular. Ever. And that's webcomics. No, I mean, they might have their appeal in reading them. Occassionally. when you want to feel superior. But I mean watching them being written. And yet, this seems to be the newest league (cf. here). To add to the Leviathan's point: something is definitely not a sport if your jersey is ironic merchandise.

That is all,
DaBentley

Pissing in the Wind: Oh, Canada

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