The Most Deilicious Bastards

Have you ever had to deal with live shrimp? I have.

The grandfather I liked used to spend weeks teaching my brother and I how to fish during summer vacation. The poor shmuck lived in St. Petersburg, Florida in a house on the canal – which sounds lovely until you find out that he shared it with my passive-aggressive, enabling, psychotic grandmother who hated his guts. Teaching a four year old how to be patient enough to fish, in the middle of July, in Florida, from sun up to sun down, day after day for weeks, was preferable to being in the house with her.

He liked to use live bait and his favorite was live shrimp. He used to try convince me to spear them myself – to instill that sense of accomplishment in me that turns introverted, stand-offish granddaughters into assertive, go-getting fisherwomen.

I was not having it.

Shrimp were creepy, looking at me with those beady little souless eyes, trying to suck me down down down into the abysmal salty hell of their bottom feeding maritime existence. And they pinched! The little fuckers pinched! No one had said anything about pinching! And it HURT! And some of them had stingers! Since when did shrimp have stingers?! What other lies about my fishy friends had I been told?!?

Needless to say, my grandfather failed in his life’s goal of getting me to hook live shrimp on my own. All his efforts were not in vain, however; there was an unintended side effect in his forcing live shrimp on me.

I may hate live shrimp with a passion that frankly disturbs and terrifies members of my family to this day – except for my mother; she thinks this is hilarious – but they are the most delicious little bastards once they’re dead. So I have launched a one woman war against shrimp. I will eat shrimp in any restaurant that serves them and doesn’t look like it will poison me with its’ bad hygeine. I will mock them through the glass tanks of every aquarium and seafood place that keeps them on display. I will hide merchandise with shrimp on it if I should see it in a store and there are no obvious security cameras.

I will drive them single-handedly to extinction…IN MAH BELLEH!

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About Morgan Maria D'Isidoro

Morgan Maria D'Isidoro has lived in Baltimore, MD for most of her life, saving a handful of failed escape attempts. Given the murder rates, she'll probably die here too. Morgan is a writer of speculative fiction and poetry, a musician of dubious quality, cat aficionado, art history fangirl, kitchen sorceress, recovering pyromaniac, accomplished liar, and an all around person of questionable employability.
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