Lobsters | Thursday, October 27, 2005 |
For historical reasons*, when I'm testing connectivity I usually hit Google and then enter "Lobster" as my search criteria. Call me a maverick, but tonight, to live on the wild side a bit, I added a second term.
The result of "Lobster Hat" can be seen below
Who said the art of story-telling is dead, eh?
*It dates back to working at smaller companies, where the small headcount usually meant that you were quite safe requesting content regarding lobsters as any local proxies were unlikely to have it cached.
The result of "Lobster Hat" can be seen below
Lobster hat
In order to become a writer, a woman decides to wear a lobster for a hat. She spends a bundle to have a tailor glue ribbons to its flanks and secure it to her head. She wears it to a literary party and everyone goes wild. "Where did you get such a fabulous hat?" a man asks, poking at the lobster to see if it's real. The lobster snaps off the man's index finger and there are more cheers.
The woman basks in the warm glow of attention, drinks champagne, and begins to flirt with the establishment. She sets her eye on a man with hoot-owl eyebrows, rumored to own a publishing company. She discovers he lives in the country and tells him how trapped she feels in the big city: "I have always longed to live in a cottage," she purrs, "where I could live and write."
During the conversation, the lobster dies from too much oxygen and collapses on her head, turning several shades of green. The smell of shellfish begins to fill the room, as guests politely move to the verandah. The man checks his watch and excuses himself, saying: "Pardon me, but I have to attend a midnight meeting."
The woman, unable to see the limp crustacean on her head, fears that it might have been something she said. She smiles and begins to flirt even more zealously to win back the crowd, but this only elicits circles of cold shoulders, strained smiles, and a polite invitation to leave. Half-drunk and humiliated, she takes a taxi back to her apartment. By the time she reaches her door, she is ready to toss her hat into the trash, but turns to discover an adoring throng of alley cats, now winding their way up the staircase.
In order to become a writer, a woman decides to wear a lobster for a hat. She spends a bundle to have a tailor glue ribbons to its flanks and secure it to her head. She wears it to a literary party and everyone goes wild. "Where did you get such a fabulous hat?" a man asks, poking at the lobster to see if it's real. The lobster snaps off the man's index finger and there are more cheers.
The woman basks in the warm glow of attention, drinks champagne, and begins to flirt with the establishment. She sets her eye on a man with hoot-owl eyebrows, rumored to own a publishing company. She discovers he lives in the country and tells him how trapped she feels in the big city: "I have always longed to live in a cottage," she purrs, "where I could live and write."
During the conversation, the lobster dies from too much oxygen and collapses on her head, turning several shades of green. The smell of shellfish begins to fill the room, as guests politely move to the verandah. The man checks his watch and excuses himself, saying: "Pardon me, but I have to attend a midnight meeting."
The woman, unable to see the limp crustacean on her head, fears that it might have been something she said. She smiles and begins to flirt even more zealously to win back the crowd, but this only elicits circles of cold shoulders, strained smiles, and a polite invitation to leave. Half-drunk and humiliated, she takes a taxi back to her apartment. By the time she reaches her door, she is ready to toss her hat into the trash, but turns to discover an adoring throng of alley cats, now winding their way up the staircase.
Who said the art of story-telling is dead, eh?
*It dates back to working at smaller companies, where the small headcount usually meant that you were quite safe requesting content regarding lobsters as any local proxies were unlikely to have it cached.
