Oppressions of Dalikrab Musings by Justynn Tyme / 2006 "A bottom feeder, just a bottom feeder. Imagine that." The spooge blowers called me that. They called me that. They called me that, despite my thriving on their waste. I am considered a delicacy. Am I not a delicacy? Yes, I think I am. My defenses dramatically trumped by the mallet. I am crushed and what little is mine is taken from me. Then spun into a myriad of meals. Some so simple as being... Quartered and steamed. Then marinated in a white wine and garlic sauce. Heavily prodded with asparagus and chives. Then lightly curdled and sprinkled with lemon butter. Creates .8oz of pure scintillating flavor. Serves one (seagull, a small one) Self-Cannibalism is worth considering, considering. I chortle at the spoogies, A fragment of my former shelf is craving its niche through the ventricular fold into the gastric pits. "Horla!" I spake.