What lengths the lobster-lovers will go to in order to celebrate their deviance! Here, tarting up a lobster with earrings, lipstick, false eyelashes, even high heels. (And... is that a blouse? And a pearl necklace? This logo, though crude, rewards repeated viewings.) Turning her out to stand, hour after debased hour, by the wooden fence advertising her services.
Clearly, this is no so-called "call girl." Like Big Fat Mable, this is a working girl, an angel of the streets, one of the Forgotten. Lobsters like her are society's disposables.
Still, she puts a brave face on it, beckoning to passersby. "What do you say, Sport? How about a nibble? A sawbuck and you can have your way with me, a pot of water, and a lemon."
The street is a cruel master.
How? How! How in heaven's name does this sort of imagery work?
You know what? We don't actually want to know how. We couldn't handle the whole sordid story of the stink that dwells in the hearts of men. Instead we will ask this: Why? Why must meat purveyors resort to this?