Quick Monday Notes: Tuesday Edition

1. As mentioned by the inglorious E. Wrath, the Lords were seen shoving paths through a Fire Marshall's sweaty night horror at the Black Swan last Saturday. If you missed it, you missed E. Wrath sky humping an unaware bachelorette to Paperboy and the seersuckery of birthday baby and honorary Lord: Pepper Jack. (HT: Nessa)

PS. The Black Swan was obviously hosting some sort of Japanese wedding reception, because not since Karate Kid Part II have East and West cultures clashed so mightily in one evening.

2. We spent all of Monday after 5 working concrete out front of the Toyota Center scalping fake Brittney Spears tickets to various Girl Scout troops and homosexual men. We don't sell the experience, we sell the dream.

3. It's less than a week away from opening day and we're filling up the hot tub with canola oil in anticipation for the scariness that is Oswalt facing Zambrano next Monday. Speaking of scary faces...

Is he smiling mommy?

We are rooting intensely for our favorite non-Latin Astro not named Lance or Roy. Our prayers that Hunter learned how to properly slide into second (a testicle of the game we assumed dropped during teeball) this off season and can put together a year of uninjured completeness. Positioned on an unstable limb here, we're saying this five tooler is an All Star in 09.

4. Here's a little something to get you moving this Tuesday, because...well...you deserve it.

Don't be afraid to climb on that conference room table and let your office know who's king.

Bedford Big Hits

Last weekend the Lords cocked their 9's and headed into the Heights for a b-day bash Bedford style to honor a special lady friend. The duck ravioli, lemon crab rissotto, and hand-rolled sushi was better than a Czech massage parlor. Although we were craving something off the 99 cent menu and a butterflied Nathan's hotdog, we settled on the lamb osso bucca that melted off the bone like panties falling off the ladies at the Filthy Swan. Our waiter was as straight as a jelly fish in a washing machine, but the laughs were good all around. He even managed to serve us chocolate on a stick and flash-fried us back to TX/OU weekend - which is never a bad thing, provided Chris Simms isn't the starting quarterback. Loopdudes: Be sure not to miss the Dyson Blade hand dryer in the restroom de muchachos. It's the Bentley of hand drying machines and powerful enough to jump start an Obamatacular economy. With Egyptian soft hands, fiberglass smooth fingernails, and full tummies we levitated our way over to the Dirty Swan for some Katy Perry bubble gum rock and a dance floor of cosmic chaos. Life doesn't get any better inside, well, just outside the Loop.

BleachBrown will follow up with a few later, but here are a few to wet your palate:

High/Low lights -

A gallon of chunk in the first urinal. Not a drop on the floor. Damn, we respect projectile aiming skillz like that.

Lots of Asians. It was like Korea in a box of mirrors.

BleachBrown pushing E.Wrath into the largest Persian woman we've ever seen. She made Gina Davis look diminutive

Diesel Burnes being propositioned to trade his floral-print shirt in exchange for a pirated copy of Rad on DVD.

Send me an Angel.

BleachBrown encouraging E.Wrath to continue to slobber all over the hot chick on a date with the 2L from South Texas School of Blow.

And finally...Ridge Manners stepping out in a baby blue seer sucker suit. The Dos Equis Guy and the Warren Commission would be proud.

Stay thirsty my friends and dry your hands with care.

LordsTALK - Jebus T. Tebow

Loopdrones - we're back with another edition of LordsTALK and we are thrilled to welcome his holiness Mr. Tim "Savior" Tebow to the depths of hell, we mean Houston.

Our Tebow, who art in heaven.

TT: It sure is hot in here. Is it just me? And it smells funny too.

LORDS: That's the smell of our sins, Timmy.

TT: So, anyone in here need saving? I just saved a tribe in Tonga last week on my spring break with a bunch of handshakes and high fives. It took me about half an hour. Then I bench pressed a cart full of oxen to celebrate. One-handed.

LORDS: Tell us Super T, you've never done anything wrong in your life before? At least other than that personal foul call in the National Championship game last January... Some have even described you as "Christ-like" or the Messiah. Churches in Ghana use your sweat to baptize new members.

TT: Aside from that trip to Vegas where I snorted enough Angel Dust to kill a large elephant and Percy and I gave that Tahitian call girl the double stuff up her business, no I've never actually committed a sin. Jesus died for our sins anyway, so as long as we ask for forgiveness, we will always have a place in my, I mean, the Lord's heavenly kingdom.

LORDS: Tell us a little more about yourself.

TT: I was immacuately conceived in the womb of my mother, the virgin Carrie, in a small town outside Gainsville now know as Bethlehem, Florida. On the night of my birth, three wise ESPN commentators brought forth gifts of fearlessness, an unbreakable will, and a rigged Heisman poll. When I was 13 months old I etched the Footprints poem into the side of my crib with my Dad's Bowie knife. I have the foresight of a tarot card reader and the tenaciousness of a badger on a speed ball. I've never lost a game before, I've only run out of time.

LORDS: Besides convincing the children of the world that Jesus died for your national championships, what do you in your spare time for fun?

TT: Last week I painted Bible verses on the foreheads of homeless transients in the park. It's my new Paint the Pagans campaign. If they fail to convert after standing next to me, I pile drive them like an Oklahoma linebacker until they do. So far we've converted 718,436 hobos. This afternoon I'm showing Rick Perry and Greg Abbott how to bake gluten-free cookies iced with "I heart Jesus." It just doesn't get any better than my life. I love me some me.

LORDS: And so does everyone else. We also hear they've erected a new plaque of your speech from last season at the Florida football stadium.

TT: That's what Jesus told me last night during my bed time prayers, but I've been too busy to check out the plaque. I've been busy doing a lot of ministering everywhere possible so I haven't been back to campus much.

LORDS: We know what Tebow would do, but what would Tebow not do?

TT: I would not fail to turn water into Gatorade if my team was down at half time. I would not let any east Asian Christians name theirs sons after something other than me. I would most certainly not admit to Gator fans about having sex with a bunch of Florida State co-eds. And I would never fail to let an ABC college football audience that I love Jesus more than any thing else in the world.

LORDS: Even unprotected sex?

TT: No comment.

There is only one Golden Rule. Do as Tebow does.

Thanks for joining us on LordsTALK. Jesus Tebow, gradulations, you may now save the rest of the world.

Once Hairful Friday: Here We Go Again!

We base our daily lives and general morality around liturgy passed to us by the totem of late 80s glamrock. As these messages of prudence steer us through a tempest of indulgence, our mandate is to worship the benevolent hair providence in all its glory.

With shoulder pad movements that could hypnotize a tree cat domestic, British mansation and Whitesnake creator, David Coverdale, once stood at the apex of resplendence with blonde locks of liquid fire flowing through your girlfriend's every thought. At its orgasm, Coverdale's hair captured the imagination of a confused world, denying its fortress of appeal was then the equivalent of picking a fight with a guy in the riot palming a brick.

Fog machine...check. Wind machine...check. Some mild domestic violence on top of a cream Jaguar...check!

We're in the midst of designing Whitesnake's next cover art, in a transparent dream that our creativity alone will inspire a new album and subsequent 2010 tour, forcing us to bulldoze respective career paths and spend a summer floating between US amusement park venues, catching Hep G from a Mr. Bigg groupie and basking in the radiant babykill that is 'Snake. It's an electric guitar phoenix making love to Tawny Kitaen in a python orgy-pit on Saturn all done on MS Paint and we'll be submitting it next month. Fingers crossed!

Have a great weekend vassals and remember, don't be careful...
BE HAIRFUL!

Sensory Assault: EWR

We've got a layover in Newark and these surroundings are the bus full of pianos exploding our frail senses into vapor. Here you go:

- Kathy Bates in a Beetlejuice costume is sitting across from us with eyes firmly glued to our every twitch.
- Drops of Jupiter is playing somewhere and like a panther's growl alone in the rainforest, we can't tell where it's coming from or thusly which direction to flee from our certain deafening/murder
- Our lemon pound cake tastes like bathroom.
- A sherpa of noisy Indian children have descended upon us in a thick mist, smelling like a Hindi daycare and screaming for more chicken tikki.
- Reba is on the TV overhead. Hair. Lips. Twang. Horror.
- We're violently shoved to our knees by this airport's marathon fuckscent.
- Our lower right rib has snapped from a suited jerkbag shuttling our fleshy thorax with his blunt steel breifcase in passing.
- There are white jeans...everywhere.

Definitions: The Drake

The Drake (n.)

(1) A mythological vagina which bites penises with a parrot-like beak.

(2) A life full of tardiness spent in lines behind the handicapped.

(3) A plastic baby poncho.

See also to drake (v. to fall face first on a mounted axe), drakonian (adj. cocainey), drakely (adv. describes the walk used to avoid pain from a severe pelvic infection) and drake (n. Satan's thorny womb).

Program Note

We're held up in our subterrainean lair sucking down DayQuil smoothies with a rodeo clown's reckless abandonment for future brain function. As it does, real life has won this week's endfight against the virtual debate over whether we think So Vino in Montrose puts heroin in their pate.

If bosses are reading this, our illness and the begining of the NCAA tournament is a remarkable coincidence, and has been for the last 4 years.

Dance. Magic.

LORDS' Madness

At first we were a little crazy, but now we've gone completely mad! It's finally March and our under-achieving Horns are set to take on the repulsive rodents of mini-soda in the first round of the NC-2A tourney this Thursday at 6 pm. Lucky for us, we have a license to kill Gophers issued by the United Nations.

Doomed.

Sexy Dex is coming to dinner and Gopher is served. Please be forewarned, he eats nutria by the truck load.

We actually watched him swallow Kobashi once without dunking him in water first.

Quick Monday Notes

1. If you happened to have an intelligence seizure this weekend, you were probably downtown on Saturday blowing kisses into the St. Patrick's Day Parade with a retard's intensity. Wetter than mermaid sex, we sat tortured in the back of a pick-up for two hours drowning our fears of pneumonia in Wild Turkey and umbrella run-off.

2. The destroyers of melody, UB40, are slated to play HOB on Wednesday, April 29th. LOTL will be launching a campaign this week aimed at preventing the tyrannical abuse of eardrums from besieging our loved city.

Join us in the fight.

3. Our Runnin' Horns play the Golden Gophers at 6:10p on Thursday. The keg of optimism we carried for this year's veteran team has been whittled down to mere droplets of hope. Even if Texas gets out of the first round, the Horns would face the bonerchomping Blue Devils in Advantageboro, NC. All of this doesn't stop us from blindly hating our opponent though. Remember, you can't spell gay MEN's ScrOTA without the help of MINNESOTA.

4. It's Steve Winwood week motherfuckers!! Inspiration follows:
Higher Love
Valerie
Arc of the Diver
Spanish Dancer
Talking Back to the Night
While you See a Chance
Roll with It

Enjoy your week children.

LordsTALK - C.Venezuela

Loopostles - we're introducing a new feature where the Lords sit down with someone for an exclusive interview. We are fortunate to have our very own Carlos Venezuela.

LORDS: Carlos, tell us a little bit about yourself.

Carlos takes a long, deep draw from a thick Dominican cigar exhaling a sinewy jet stream of white smoke over his left shoulder. His black leather wrist cuff is slightly worn and his legs are crossed covering the strategically torn hole in his Rock and Republic jeans.

CV - I'm like an Old Spice commercial, half man, half beast. My mother was Nancy Reagan's social secretary and best known for her coining of the term "The War on Drugs". She was arrested shortly thereafter for running an opium factory three blocks from the White House.

It's still winnable.

CV - My father was a werewolf with a Vitamin D deficiency resulting from an addiction to the last season of Hogan's Heroes and honey roasted cashews. This may sound unbelievable, but I was conceived in the studio where Prince recorded Purple Rain, but have never met my folks nor seen Prince live in concert. I'm still wondering which I'd actually prefer. Prince has been one hell of a role model.

LORDS: How were you introduced to the Lords?

CV - Honestly, BleachBrown and E.Wrath found me face down in a pool of vomit in the middle of the dance floor at Sammy's after the club had shut its doors. They scooped me up, hosed me off, and I've been living out of a storage unit in 36 Sixty ever since. I owe them big time. Right now I'm just surviving credit card to credit card, but I've got this online cash gifting system thing that's guaranteed money. Two more weeks and I'll have my first money order, then it's on Diamond Club style.

LORDS: What's your favorite place for a one-night stand?

CV - Without question, Tipsy Clover. It's a guaranteed hook up for me after feeding a young co-ed three Pearl Lights, two roofies, and a line of Hydroxycut. They never remember a thing.

LORDS: Finish the following --

LORDS: If you could be anything in the world you'd be...

CV - Tiger Woods' cock.

LORDS: What's your favorite Giovanni Ribisi movie?

CV - Undoubtedly, Boiler Room, but his role in The Postman was brilliant as well.

LORDS: That's quite disturbing.

LORDS: Using a single video, summarize your approach to women --

Never gonna let you down. Utter bull shit.

Thanks again for sitting down with us for our first edition of LordsTALK. Carlos Venezuela, you are now off the hot seat.

Once Hairful Friday: Can't Slow Down

In 1983, the hallowed 8 Commandments of Love were gifted to mortals by the blissful tones of a celestial soft perm. This synergy of pop and soul under a curly tress of sculpted excellence exploded through American households faster than dropping bullets into kitchen blenders filled with lighter fluid and Plutonium.

The blind student/teacher relationship can be a tricky one.

Lock up your sightless daughters, because several Lords will be on the prowl tonight adorned in white linen blazers and a confident style. "Excuse me miss, that is a lovely cane."

Have a great weekend serfs, but please, don't be careful...be hairful.

Darkhorse Tavern: Scotch. We Demand It!

Darkhorse Tavern
2207 Washington Ave (713) 426-2442
Darkhorse Tavern finds itself just far enough down Washington from Pearl Bar/Citizen's to avoid clap of the eyes, but still close enough that you're not worried about catching a highway nap on the drive home. The generous patio allows you to toss back a few lung darts while still enjoying the pub's unforced charm. While rogue ex-Pats in another life, we found amenity in a baroque coffeeshop two blocks off Rembrandtplein. As a Houston locale, Darkhorse seances the same cozy awesomeness for us.

This underdog offers an array of drink specials to fit even the most discriminatory brand of alcoholism. Luck would have it that we recently found ourselves wet in the mix of $5 Single Malt Scotch Thursday. Scotch is usually something we reserve for home consumption as blending it with our perceived immortality is like throwing on meat gloves and waving arms in angry lion cages at a public zoo. Limbs are bound to go missing.

Our only criticism would be the music contraption's dollar rape just to get out one Paula Abdul hit.* The convenience of these digital J-boxes doesn't outweigh the taste and control displayed by a fixed set of albums. We struggle as this trend gushes throughout our bar playground.
Lords give Darkhorse Tavern the unprecedented Slurred Speech Award for excellence in the fields of Pubness and General Scotchery. Keep doing what you do sirs.

*Apologies to Brian (owner) as a member of our clan indeed rocked Cold Hearted Snake like its Middle School, purifying the joint of any paying customers hours before closing.

FU FB!

That's it, we've had it. If we have one more acquaintance inquire whether we have a Facebook account and if they can add us as friends, we're going to drive a meat thermometer into their left eye. To convey our vexation with this dark matter shit hole of a website they call a "social network", we have decided to create our own exclusive site called SpaceBook. It takes the synergies of MySpace and Facebook to create the uber web-interface of cyber displeasure.

That's downright Louisiana-style dirty.

Here are some of the notable details you might receive as an exclusive member of our new faction. Details are still being negotiated between our director of IT BleachBrown and his arch-nemesis C.Venezuela.

1. There is no "friending" on our site. This means no random ass messages from that tone-deaf midget that sat next to you in your 4th grade Texas history class. His penchant for sharting and Garbage Pail Kids repulsed you then, why would you want to be reminded of him now? Instead of blocking, we will actually have offensive capabilities which will include the ability to deliver a system crashing computer virus to anyone that sends an unsolicited message. The last thing they will see on their computer before the blue screen of death will be a personalized message that says: "I have no interest in being your fucking cyber-friend, so go buy a new piece of shit computer because we just wiped your hard drive emptier than Joel Osteen's soul."

2. No audio or video. Our site will not have audio or video file uploading capabilities. We have zero interest in that montage of your summer associate recruiting trip to Magic Island or your Nicholas Cage National Treasure Halloween costume. BTW, we think that no sideburns look is so creepy, it's not even appropriate for the Day of the Dead.

We know. He paralyzes us with fear too.

3. No friend counts. Why? Because no one gives a flying fuck about the online nexus of alleged "friends" you have. We haven't even seen as many people in our entire life as compared to the number of interweb minions our work spouse has tallied. I swear it's like she's running some sort of Nigerian e-mail scam from her workstation just to inflate her friend count. Sure you know someone named Hakuna Matata. On SpaceBook, you can only be connected to the Lords, so get used to us because we are more contagious than a case of HIV incubating in a Peruvian street hooker. Double bag? You'd be better off wrapping your goods in diamond-plated kevlar when making a connection with us.

4. No status updates. We will have two statuses: Drunk and Almost Sober. If the words are appearing in 3-D, it's not some special feature we've created, you're probably still drunk and you should update your status accordingly.

Until we get SpaceBook ramped up, please feel free to reclaim your life by canceling that parasitic trove of sewage known as Facebook. It consumes your life and has eroded the fabric of your psyche. You'd be much better off feeding your ravenous appetite with random conjecture on LOTL. We even promise not to send you bothersome messages making sure you know that the Lords are playing Scrabble and listening to Wham! Facebook can kiss our ass, before we Go, Go! We're crossing our fingers and hoping that mesmerizing dance-happy George Michael will agree to participate in our Superbowl promotion airing next year.

Choose SpaceBook and the Lords!

Quick Monday Notes

1. We just killed a Hamilton on green facepaint at Party Boy, as we get set to run caboose in this year's Houston St. Patrick's Day Parade. Fueled by brown liquor and someone else's tradition, this will be the third year that Lords have piled into the back of a F150 and indiscriminately launched metal shamrock key chains into crowds of Johns and crying orphans.

2. Its under a month until the Astros home opener against the Chicago Cubs. We're rolling our rrrrs in preparation for the return of El Caballo. Lee was tossing up doubles at a career clip last season only to knucklecuffed by Shitjar Arroyo. This year It's Panamanium!*

3. The Houstonist kindly lists the front half of this week's offering in the department of hearing. Our Wednesday is now a nightmarish coin flip we pray explodes mid air and cleaves our heads open, as we must choose between the twin hells of Canadia's Blink 182 or getting Fancy at the Rodeo.

4. This muggy weather angers the beast.

5. We're shopping a screenplay entitled Heroine Kitty. In short, its a period piece about a successful Calico who moonlights as a street justice paladin while battling the demons of a debilitating smack addiction. Think The Adventures of Milo and Otis meets Trainspotting set against the backdrop of the 1987 Invisible Touch Tour. If you'd like more information about this screenplay or another libretto, you can get in touch with our agent:

Tyfoon Coinstein
e: what!motherfuckers@2bluntproductions.com
p: (281) 2BL-UNTS

HEROINE KITTY

In a Land of Confusion, only one can save you...

...but can she save herself?

Little Woodrow's in the Village

As of late, the Lords have been feathering their nest in a cozy little nook in the Village. It's our novel go-to staple known as Little Woodrow's. We had to migrate somewhere after those commercial real estate fuck turds razed the one on Alabama. Yes, we know the parking in the Village is as organized as a rebel group in Eritrea. Lucky for us, Good Charlotte has been helping the Lords work through the Big 50 and towards that infamous brown t-shirt and the promise of happy hour until 9 pm for life. We're well along the way and have overcome the most difficult hurdle, number 12, which is actually a pint of urine.

Saturday was spent guzzling liquid black lung, aka the Optimator. We are more fearful of it than Rommel in the North African dessert. The end of our journey will culminate with a black and tan, rumored to be liquified Seal poured over a Heidi Klum. Care to join us? We'll be there this Saturday again like clockwork. We're more of a sure thing than the meager returns expected during the second week of The Watchmen. Also, we promise not to swing our giant blue cocks in your face. Probably.

P.S. the Turkish Delight next door is as heavenly as an easy bartender working only the day shift.

Once Hairful Friday: Returns to the Blue Lagoon

We could spend a tired career chronicling the gloryhair tennis bestowed upon us from 1973 to 1988. Instead, our goal is to focus, not on the most magnificent specimen (see: Bjorn Borg), but on deconstructing the steepest decent from coiffure wonderment. There is no stronger example in the sport than Mr. Sure Shot himself...

Armenians really are a sasquatch race

Sweet Mercy. Our thoughts and prayers go out to that tremendous headband, for it's truly one of God's sweet miracles. We'd throw up an AFTER shot of Mr. Graf, but fear the gleam would burn a hole through most retinas.

Enjoy your weekend plebs, and remember...don't be careful...be hairful.

Product Endorsement - It's ProCaulk Time!

Our first reaction was that this was the newfangled Viagra. Like an upgrade from 5-Hour Energy to 6. Is this the next best thing to mix with our Red Bull for a night of hiding the tool in the shed in the ladies' restroom at Komodos? We thought so. Unfortunately, no such extraordinary results were achieved. We were reduced to staring down a blossoming yet mysterious dental student on holiday from that D-bag town to our due north until she noticed our new thumb ring. We had paired it perfectly with a new Affliction tee and an Ed Hardy ball cap. How could she resist the synergies of these bitch magnets? It. Is. Not. Possible.

Taunt me and I will caulk you down with the momentum of a Thundercat on speed.

Anyway, of course we ended up plowing her, but not at Komodos. We had made our way over to Union Bar after the VIP herd pen shrunk down to a rousing conversation between two bouncers over who was going to clean up the John. Too bad for them, she made me go number three all over her back and half of the counter top too. Thanks again, Umbria. WHAT? That's a real name! We had confirmation from a real driver's license. Shut your holes, you envious pork swords.

So off to Little Bigs we went to cram our wasted faces with mini-midnight snacks. We woke up the next morning with new friends. Not a smoldering student of cavities, but French gout and a stank cock. No problem though, rub a little ProCaulk on it and it all fades away.

We rate this product five healthy whore-pipes out five!

scissor face

We're at Cahills absolutely hating life and watching Pitt take Marquette into a prison shower. Our buddy stood us up like its prom night and we've rammed down two Guinea and one of e wraths Vikes. If captain cockwart behind the bar looks in our direction once more, he's getting choked out with his brown dishtowel.

Don't be shocked if you live in the rice mil area and hear an air raid siren. Some one bleeds tonight...

Blow Out

Rarely would we leave our abode for a night on the town alone. We're the kind that may take in a matinee on a Saturday afternoon without companionship, but we'd never drag out our iron lung sans a friend and a crutch. Unfortunately, we've been feeling like a subterranean homesick alien for far too long and we're ready to prove it to ourselves that we can do it on our own.

We actually met her last Valentine's Day at a single-girls' dinner party. A house full of girls felt more like a house of cards. At first we thought she was a mute. We looked at her and sulked. She smiled back but it looked like she was attempting to swallow a pyramid-shaped light bulb. Two weeks later who would've guessed she would've been at Black Star Bar on the same Wednesday night as us. She wasn't the one we remembered. It was actually her friend who's claim to fame was once taking a trip to Alaska in the belly of the Exxon Morning Bell. She was the size of a small county in Nebraska and had clearly been corn fed for most of her life. We nudged her on the shoulder. Don't you know Stephanie Williamson? Stephanie was the hostess of the dinner party. NOOOOO, she roared with the force of a thousand suns and a pack of hunting bears. Oh, wait, yeah, I know Steph. I might be wrong, but you're, Billy right? Actually, it's Thom. You know what I mean, silly. Her jigsaw blood-stained teeth began to make our eyelids twitch with fear.

Our selfish goal was calculated with the intent of hoping to meet her paranoid android friend. It appeared that she'd finally waxed her upper lip and was beginning to relax after inhaling a line of Barbituates. So it turns out the Parliaments she's been smoking have also been contributing significantly to her recent weight loss, which is making her look extra special this particular evening. Or maybe it was the Corona Lights. Either way, we were hoping to clean the pipes. She grasps our treefingers without saying a word. There, there was her Volvo SUV just across the street in the parking lot. We take the 15 steps and foreplay ensues with the opening of the passenger-side door. A ripcord climax unfolded four seconds later with the unzipping of our pants.

Heaving bodies were packt like sardines in a crushd tin box. Feels like everything in its right place. She begins to bludgeon our beefstick and after seven-short minutes she's requesting a warning as her hand balances against the side airbag. Then our nice dream ensues. Just as she pauses to gasp for a breath and wipe the juice dribbling off the end of her chin, our throbbing vegetable dishonorably discharges right in her eye. We think to ourselves, will nail polish remover be of any use at expunging semen from a brow? Our thanks is the slamming of the revolving door. No surprises here. Her last memory of us was Radiohead humming in the background. As we leave her high and dry, we wonder if she liked the taste of our weird fishes.