Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

I could spew boring blogorrhea about my final day working for d-bag lawyers, mealy-mouthed do-gooders and hangers-on, but instead---for posterity--I'd rather describe the time I ate wild cicadas, and how I hope to pollute this company's bathroom with as much stinky vitriol as I did in my own apartment back in 2004.

But first, some back story ...

In the Spring of 2004, I was excited about the local 17-year cicada infestation; eating bugs is exotic and I'd heard the NPR stories about French ex-pats delighting in eating these insects. How bad could it be? Hell, they do it all the time in the so-called Third World.

During the cicada attack in '04 I was commuting by bike every day to north Georgetown. My cicada collecting technique was to peddle hard uphill, a soy sauce-laced tupperware container bungie-corded to the back of my bike---all the while, stopping and picking these buzzing insects from the passing bushes.

Mind you, this was nothing new at the time; lots of people were eating them and I thought a new American bug-eating frenzy was at the cusp. Man, was I wrong ...

At what moment do you realize that your own warped mindset is half a click from the beasts that thrive around your feet? When I was sauteing cicadas back in 2004 and my dogs were chomping at my heels for every other half-cooked beastie I threw at them, I felt pure animalistic.

I won't waste time detailing how cicadas taste; what's more important is that my asshole spewed brown liquid for TWO DAYS---worse than I'd ever had from eating dried sausage swarming with flies in Cambodia; worse than the time I ate stank-ass oysters at the City Lite Buffet in Gaithersburg; and yes, worse than Salvadoran Mondongo Soup at Haydee's in Mt. Pleasant.

Here's to a new career!

(Above image, designed by my lovely wife, May 2004).