After commenting to the young lobster jockey that I would have no trouble 'amusing' myself while I waited for my lobster to be cooked, I wasted no time taking this self-portrait. I pondered the most appropriate facial expression, trying three different variations. A smile did not seem fitting, especially given my red-shelled fate. After all I was just murdered by someone making ten bucks an hour who, in all likelihood, was two pimples shy of twenty years old.
Smile....and say 'ha Varty'! I don't think so.
The expression I chose was one of surprise tempered by fate. It was that 'oh oh' look, the one Andre (the giant) might have worn after realizing he had wondered into a head hunter's village.
I mentioned to the lobster jockey that I was probably head number one hundred and one to poke through this two dimensional plywood lobster....today. He estimated that my estimate was low. Dear gawd, you mean that hundreds of clammy tourists stood here before me? Words that I muttered silently.
I fear that later today I'll develop some sort of hideous chin strap fungal furuncle (see boil), or a ring-of-fire rash, or a boil* from placing my sorry mug in this face toilet. I'd deserve a disgruntled dewlap or a wilted wattle for my ill-conceived photo op, though perhaps it's punishment enough to have voluntarily uploaded this image to the masses.
*Get it? A boil...that's deadly lobster humour.
No comments:
Post a Comment