Lobsters At 30,000 Feet

I just flew home from Halifax and to my surprise, there were a bunch of people on the plane carrying boxes of lobsters.

I dunno if they’re alive or dead or what, but these boxes almost looked like the kind of containers they give you at the SPCA when you take one of those desperate, smelly cats they like to guilt you into buying by blackmailing you with the threat of euthanization as if you don’t almost immediately regret purchasing the stinky mongrel and secretly desire to strangle the thing yourself…

…so, maybe the lobsters were alive, I thought. It wouldn’t be surprising would it? I mean, they’re alive when you buy them at a fancy restaurant. You know, the kind where you get escorted up to the aquarium and mock the poor, defenceless crustaceans by sentencing a death warrant to one of the lobsters like a post-modern Hitler of the deep.

So, maybe these lobsters were alive. Wouldn’t that be fantastic if they all broke loose of their cardboard confines and starting crawling all over the airplane. People would be screaming and standing on their seats. Flight attendants would be trying to wrangle the clawed creatures into a lavatory using those flimsy little pillows they have as the panicked lobsters pinched unsuspecting travelers’ Achilles heels. And the plane would start to emit that sour, seaweed stink of decaying fish.

Yep, I’m pretty sure that would’ve helped spruce up my flight a little better than the lady who decided to breast-feed her kid next to me.