In the patrician worldview of sea monkey royalty, each piece of leftover pizza or cold, tinfoil-wrapped Asada chicken is a refrigerated tribute owed the Sea Monkey King, his presumptousness a fair trade, I figure, for the colorful, malt liquor-fueled tales he spins of deep sea intrigue—vivid, rambling stories that invariably end with a couple of decapitated manatees and a trio of mermaids engaged in shimmering acts of nasty, flippered gratification.
But when such a presumption extends to taking my last cold Guinness and the three mini Reese’s peanut butter cups I hid in the back of the freezer, well—let’s just say that’s how one ends up with brine shrimp husk ground into the treds of one’s shower shoes…
Atta boy, Jeff! Don’t take no cocky bullshit off a one a them briny cocksucking motherfuckers!
Ya gotta keep your pimp hand strong.
And, it goes without saying, your sea monkey hand.
“Millions for defense, not one cent for Guinness….er, tribute.”
REGICIDE!!!
This might be OT(?) but I can’t help myself.
With Cindy! drawing crowds of 150 in NYC, shouldn’t they maybe be refering to her as the SubRosa Parks of the Peace Movement?
Sea monkeys are nothing but trouble. I’ve been convinced of that ever since I first saw them cavorting nekkid in the back-page ads of my Spider-Man and Plastic Man comics when I was nine.
There’s “open bag,” and then again there’s taking the last frosty long-neck from the tattered remains of a six-pack. Just. Don’t. Do. It.
Self-involved crustaceans always seem to put me in a peeve. Little friggin’ precambrian throwbacks.
TW: got
as in, Got Guinness?
Sea monkeys huh?
That’s why I come here, to have my understanding of the forces in the universe expanded and explained.
I was under the, possibly wrong, impression that there was a rift in the space-time continuum through which that kinda stuff that I saved back for an emergency was transported into another dimension.
Never stopped to think that my emergency stuff was being filched by living entities existent on this plane.
You musta had a damned interesting childhood.
I shudder to think what manner of horrible, Lovecraftian-elder-god-type-being would stumble across your blog by doing a Google search for some of the things found in that post.
From now on when I post, I would like you all to imagine that I look just like the Say Anything Girl.
Does the Sea Monkey King have concubines? Not offering, just asking.
Hey Jeff – looks like Justin Raimondo has his pointy little head all a-lather about the NYPD rousting Mother Sheehan® and the other permitless, yammering twits on her “Coach of Death” tour…
Fight the MAN! Speak TRUTH to Powell!
And Myrna Loy, too!
SB: because
just
That Sea Monkey King has been getting cocky ever since Mozilla announced this.
Guess they’ll have to add “Memorial” to the name.
Wait a sec, Colossus—who you talkin’ ‘bout?!?