The Dinghy

The Dinghy

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Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Cod-suckers, scrod-gobblers and tuna-melters may masticate on the meat of our aquamarine brethren with great relish. They may flaunt the conventions of common courtesy, rending--in our very faces--the fleshy flesh of our fishy friends.

These sadistic fish-lickers may even go so far as to dip the noble beasts in batter, then butter their bodies with (among other substances): butter, batter, ketchup, relish (as mentioned supra), onion scrunch, multi-variegated liquefied remnants and, on occasion, certain mysterious sauces of a yellow nature.

These brutalities, unsavory as they may be, are commonplace in the many Microregions of this perverse nation in which we live. Yes: to rail, like a skateboarder, against these offenses would be as to pounding one's head against the pavement.

And no: No matter the mania of our madness, our illiterate signage, our metrically proficient chants and our indefatigable antics will stay not their bloodied hands.

The hated fishmongers may, now, with impunity, throw open their doors. They may hose (with hideous hoses) the mottled walkways girding their under-sanitized shops. They may even, yes, shout touts at the great gullible masses.

Yes: they may.

But listen: The fishmonger is danger made manifest.

I repeat: what I just said.

Do not be fooled by his hideous countenance and his gut-spattered garb: these flesh-peddling orators elocute their mind-morphing fish pitches with a rhetorical acuity bordering on the preternatural. Their hortatory oratorios are cast with such skill as to make the unwary spine tingle! And, as if their siren call were not enough, they will even (sometimes) go so far as to display their piquant pre-fabricated piscine morsels. And they do so with a twisted, bourgeois delight.

Yes: we can do nothing. Yes: agog at this spectacle, we must simply stand by.

But when the ill-bred brutes of those ilks (the swallowers and mongers both) step past the societal line drawn in the sand, when they move beyond the bounds of those proscribed perversions, when they propagate the preparation of God-forsaken and foreign-sounding fish “meals” (the syncretization of fish and various other foodstuffs--yes, this goes far beyond mere sauces), then, THEN we must muster our most punishing blows, our most deafening roars and our most illogical insanities in defense of the weak, the meek, the pitiful and the poached.

To wit: the other day (JUST THE OTHER DAY!), as I meandered the magazine aisle of my Microregion's local dollar store, I came across a hideous rag of gawdawful gumption. This demonically spawned and certified publication (Real Simple) trumpets the birth (twisted and mutatious as it may be) of a "culinary" invention of such morally reprehensible ideation, I can barely speak its name.

OK: Fish tacos.

Fish tacos. Yes. Fish tacos. "Fish tacos?" you ask yourself. "What is the nature of the perverted mind from which this unholy, immoral, and, most probably, bacteria-rich concoction has sprung?"

What indeed.

Imagine the squalorous hellhole that issued forth this most glutinous of gastronomical grotesqueries. Imagine (if you dare) the sort of brushed steel phantasmagoratory that could hatch this mutant roe; this spawn of a mind gone mad.

In aisle 5: Battered and enfeebled, my taste buds writhing in anticipatory agony at the mere consideration of such malicious dishes, I cast about my familiar Family Dollar for a figurative handhold, a moral anchor, a port for my electrically storming occipital lobes.

Fish tacos. The words beat your brain with punitive force. The very clause calls forth nauseous pre-cogitations, stomach-churning anticipations and colon-bursting trepidations.

Sickened and bewildered, I faltered. No longer able to dam the forces welling in my physical self, I lost all.

And fled.

Fish tacos.

Fish tacos.

God, life sucks.

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