The Lobsters at Red Lobster Depress Me

For some people, death or a breakup will send them into a fit of depression. For me, it’s lobsters.

And not just any lobsters … the lobsters at Red Lobster.

I mean, have you ever really LOOKED at them? With the giant glass case and the bubbles trickling toward the top.  And their claws bound together, with blue-and-pink-and-yellow rubber bands.

Just sitting there, waiting to be boiled to death.

What kind of way is that to die?


If I was a lobster at Red Lobster, I’d probably kill myself, first.

And so, as I sat there that Friday night—waiting for the hostess to call my name—I just became SO DEPRESSED.

I thought about, as a kid, how the lobsters used to excite me. I’d get all ADHD on my parents, screaming about “the lobsters! the lobsters!” But that was before I really knew.

And then, I had probably worst conversation in the HISTORY of conversations, with my mother.

It kinda went something like this:

Me: “Do you think the lobsters know?”

My mom: “Know what?”

Me: “You know.”

My mom: “Shari, I really don’t want to talk about the lobsters.”


I’m just so glad I don’t like lobster. I ordered chicken that night. And it’s probably a good thing I don’t live in some remote, Yiddish town in Russia.

Because I’d be seriously screwed.

[P.S. Happy Valentine’s Day!]