oh man, just when I think, that’s it, fuck this super sized TV and its snotty-ass credit card thin remote, I flip to the nuttiest shit: thousands of pink and orange crabs wobbling down a steep cliff on their spindly, prehistoric legs. They looked like an invading alien army—I found them sickly fascinating, especially when the narrator pointed out the zillions of eggs hanging from each of their bellies. The pregnancies looked like gigantic wads of ear wax caked with sand, ready to fall off at any second in an unsightly clump. These lady crabs were sick and dehydrated from their long, dangerous journey. There were a couple of shots of them pausing on the cliff to dip their claws into puddles and thirstily suck the rainwater off the tips. Just beyond the cliff roared the ocean, where they needed to lay their eggs. Although they were land crabs, and couldn’t swim, they were bound by a cruel evolutionary trick to lay their eggs in the ocean.

(See man, you're not the only one who's shit was fucked from the get-go)

Anyway, the goal for these crabs was to get as close as possible to the breaking waves without getting dragged in by the tide. Needless to say, it was pretty dramatic. The camera showed the winners scurrying back towards the cliff, weighing less, free from instinct’s heavy hand. The losers were stuck in the surf, their beady little eyes (which were nauseatingly human, btw) flashed in pain, their ragged claws flailed about uselessly.

I was simultaneously thrilled and disgusted. I wanted the crabs to make it and lay their eggs and at the same time I wanted a great chemical blast to come and extinguish their repulsive, cockroachness from this earth forever.

Way up high in my la-z-boy I felt like the god of those crabs. I checked my omnipotent disposition in my reflection on the TV screen. I practiced looks of benevolance and scorn.

I flipped the channels and landed on a grainy black and white home video of a high school talent show. The caption on the bottom flashed “EMINEM”, followed by “1990”. There he was, sauntering up and down the stage wearing a plain, non-designer hoodie (the kind that collects those little dingleberries every time you wash it) and a black ski mask over his face. That was a fucking genius touch, let me tell you. Black face without the black face. His eyes were bulging out of his head. Spit rained out of his mouth. He looked like somebody you’d have to take an aluminum bat to. Or shoot with a silver bullet. Although the sound was piss-poor, you could still hear that he was dope.

I don’t care what your feelings are regarding The Great White Hope, party people. It’s beside the point whether you think he’s nice or not (personally, I think he is)-- the lesson for this Friday afternoon is that you’ve got to be more than hungry if you want to make it. You’ve got to be fucking RABID.


flagrant drips silver foam when she writes.

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