My friend Eddy was talking about how his fish died this week. That reminded me of a story from 2000, about how awful I am with fish.
I had a little goldfish that I kept on the shelf over my desk. He had a digestive problem. He would swim around with a long thread of shit streaming from his little hole, but he couldn’t quite get it to drop.
Every day, I watched him swim around for hours, trying to get that damn turd off. It took forever and drove me crazy.
Finally, one night, I got sick of seeing his floating turds. I flushed him down the toilet…alive.
That’s right, I’m a cold-blooded murderer.
And I don’t want to hear any complaints from any hippies. If you’ve ever eaten fish, then your fish probably died in a worse way than mine did.
Now excuse me while I go eat this tuna sandwich.