Murder Most Tasty

Doesn't make sense, does it? Except that I killed a whole bunch of little creatures this weekend. KILLED them. Delighted in Killing Them.

We spent the weekend with friends of ours we don't get to see very often and their wondrous child. This child, like many human children, seems to not care at all that I'm a tad different from other humans. She merely explains it away as "you're silly." Our friends managed to put their hands on a mess o' crawdaddies. Big ones. They supply the beer - and wonderful sides, etc -- and I cook up those little mudbugs.

I'm not quite sure why it always is my contribution to cook the bugs -- our friend is an amazing cook and pretty much capable of doing everything she puts her hand to. Maybe it's the taint of MURDER that makes it my job? Maybe my status as Monkey means that I don't have to worry about being heaven bound or not? Or the assumption that non-humans consider killing just another daily event?

What ever the reason, I sure do love those 'daddies. I got the spices just right this time -- and even the child ate as many as we would hand her . . . of course the bowl of melted butter didn't hurt as enticement.

Later in the evening, the child decided that the Phenom should play the role of alien, me the helpless captive, and she the valiant rescuer. It's kinda nice to be rescued from time to time -- especially when an alien is trying to eat my eyebrows off.