Imperial Catfish

Ignore the mixed metaphor. (Is Imperial a superhero—the tights, the underwear-on-the-outside, the cape, the musclehead posturing? Or is he an emperor—the crown, the name?) What's important is Imperial's imperious countenance, his haughty bearing, his determination to be the most delicious damn fish you ever encountered.

Look at those "whiskers"! The eyebrows more typically seen on the face of a tsar! The deadly, medusa-like gaze! Imperial is not to be trifled with.

And, as with all kings from the land of suicide food, his highness's every command involves his being eaten. "Kneel, commoner! Kneel and hack me apart! A lemon, a lemon! My kingdom for a lemon!"

The madness of suicidefoodist royalty makes King George III look stone-cold sober. Perhaps it's the inbreeding, or the isolation from everyday folk. Whatever the cause, Imperial Catfish and his mammalian (usually porcine) counterparts are crazy as shit-house rats. Do we have the courage to say the emperor has no clothes?

Well? Do we?