Last time, we discussed suicide food in low places—the bins of the nation's dollar stores. From there, we travel now to the catalogs of America's hipster etailers.
And when we get there, what do we learn?
Mostly, that even those for whom T-shirts are the standard medium of self-expression (and whose self-expression is typically the expression of a non-self) yearn for animals of their own to mock.
And so, this delightful shrimp spouting a would-be catchphrase. Yes, it has an arbitrary winkiness to it, but we still can't imagine anyone repeating it.
Caught in the chopsticks, the shrimp claims to regret nothing. Instead, its imminent consumption is the quintessence of a glorious deathstyle, its final thought the exclamation point at the end of a meaningless existence.
(Thanks to Dr. Peace Farout for the referral.)