Thursday, December 18, 2008

Oysters

Today I had some fresh oysters for lunch in a small, unpretentious restaurant in Englewood. As I ate the oysters and drank the accompanying beer, I pondered their significance in the Scheme of Things.

Oysters, as you may be aware, can change sex several times during the course of their lives. This is why you never find any oyster gay bars on seabeds. By the time a homo oyster has summoned up the courage to publicly "out" himself and engage in man-on-man action, "he" has most likely turned into a "she". Quite possibly a straight she, as well, thus ruling out any bivalve lesbo action. There therefore isn't much point opening up any sexual orientation-specific shellfish den of iniquity.

Not that oyster sex, straight or gay, is particularly exciting in the first place. Because they're in their shells all the time and never reveal their bodies, female oysters are the bivalve equivalents of Muslim women while, for their part, the permanently covered male oysters are like seafood Ninjas. They have to fantasize about how gorgeous their partner is, as they never see him or her naked. And when they do fantasize sufficiently, the male ejaculates out of his shell, and the female fires out a cloud of eggs. The ensuing gloop mixes and, hopefully, fertilizes somewhere in the middle. Swimming through an oyster gang-bang must be a particularly messy experience.

Did I say that they never see each other? Well, that's not strictly true. When they're shucked in a restaurant and served to a diner, that's when they eventually see one another. I'll bet the last thoughts of my lunch today were something along the lines of "Shit! Don't tell me I shagged that!" and "Jesus Christ! What the fuck must our children look like?!"

But then, as you can see below, I put them out of their misery with an application of Tabasco and lemon juice. And very tasty they were, too.

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