There you have it, nothing less than solid proof that the Cthulhoids have arisen. Not only has R’lyeh broken the surface once more, freeing Cthulhu to stalk once more among men, slavering with bloodlust and howling with madness, but His legions on the ocean bottom have seized control of the distilleries the Scots, so foolish, so blind, located together on a remote island, hemmed in by fog and shunned by mainlanders; a strange, lonely, broken-down place, where the very air corrodes the greyed stone from which the town is hewn. The townsfolk, isolated and inbred as they are, provided little resistance, arming themselves only with bulky helmets and a peculiar, non-Euclidean weapon consisting of a bizarre and abhorrent arrangement of pipes and airsacs. Their precautions were as nothing against the powerful arms and ravenous beaks of the briny legions, although the invaders did have to stuff their earholes with kelp against the terrible assault of the sonic waves.
Make mine a double, but I think I’m sticking with something further inland: tequila. That’s made from cactus, right?
Hello, boys!
so I’ve started farming them myself. To the inexperienced onlooker, two-phased intensive shrimp farming might seem like a daunting task. While it is hard work, I always feel rewarded. How I just love the marine smell of raw feed on my hands. From hatchery to grow-out pond, I am responsible for keeping out disease, looking after salinity conditions, and making sure that there is enough circulation in the water. When I look into my special concrete larval tanks, I am looking at thousands, if not millions, of potential shrimp-kabobs. It is the perfect blend of embracing nature – my private bountiful sea – and expectantly knowing that I’ll be feasting on lemon-buttered scampi over linguini that results ultimately in blissful domestic satisfaction.
