In this crazy, mixed-up world, there are a few touchstones of normalcy that one turns to time and time again to clear away the aggro and alienation of interacting in our topsy-turvy civilization.
Puppies. Kittens. Babies. Clouds. The smell of bread baking. Cows grazing in a field.
Goldfish.
Until now.
What, does nobody else think what the geneticists have done to those poor fishies is sick?
Well for starters there doesn’t seem to be a link to anything that might suggest that what we’re witnessing is anything other than normal. Any pet store contains goggle-eye, big-cheeked goldfish by the bowlful.
Am I missing something?
Besides, it’s close to Christmas–these goldfish are prob’ly just having a tantrum because their mother said they can’t have the Dora dildo thingy and are holding their breath until they turn orange.
You think those fish are normal? You’re a sick, sick man, Metro.
Y’wanna know how the giraffe got that way? … Get me drunk some time.
How hard could that be? I shall make a note.
BTW I was most disappointed in your local Cannery Brewery Anarchist Ale. I was SO looking forward to a beer named after me, but it was strangely bitter and hard to swallow.
Not merely named after you but possessing at least two of your most noteable attributes. Why are you complaining?