Aujourd'hui, le poisson est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas. J'ai reçu un télégramme de l'asile: Poisson décédée. Enterrement demain. Sentiments distingués. Cela ne veut rien dire. C'était peut-être hier.
I haven’t been posting as often as I’d like. Caught up in the burial of Mick, the fish. Mick’s dead. Long live Mick.
So today, I take all three kids to the store. We spend a half-hour picking out a new Betta fish. We name him Gil.
Gil, the fish.
That was two hours ago. It’s now 6:54PM EST.
And Gil, the fish is dead.
Therein lies a tale. Or at least a moral. A maxim, perhaps: DON’T DUMP THE NEW FISH INTO THE WATER WHILE THE KIDS ARE WATCHING. Turns out the fish didn’t take to the water. Sped around like his tail was on fire and then just… pfft.
So we buried Gil. Right next to Mick’s fresh ground. Many tears were shed.
The kids made a memorial for both fish. I went to the beer store.
Brought home the best I could find: Dogfish Head ‘Raison D’Être’ Mahogany Ale and Rogue Brewery’s ‘Dead Guy Ale’. I brought them home, opened two bottles and poured them both in a pint glass. I made dinner and the wife and I spent the night pondering the absurd and nursing pints of our very own ‘Dead Fish Ale’.
3 comments:
Oh, God.
est-ce que c'est absurde que t'as écrit en francais?
(mais j'aime bien quand tu écris en francais. ca me fait contente. malgré la perte du poisson, qui me fait triste.)
I expect you to write in French on occasion. It keeps me on my toes. Je t'écrirai en Français, mais pas jusqu'à ce que j'arrête la pensée dans Allemand.
(it's been that kind of day -- spitty and glottal.)
Pauvres poissons. Or should I say arme fische?
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