Brock Says: The other writer participating in this weekly exercise, Megan Renart, started us off with this sentence:

This fish tastes terrible.

“This fish tastes terrible. Because it’s fish, I guess. The only time I ate fish that tasted any good and wudn’t a fish stick, was in Vagina Beach, Vagina. Bourbon braise’ salmon with like dese little shave’ almons up top. ‘Cept for the texchure, you couldn’ tell it was fish. Not like this. This, is shit,” is what some woman was saying so everyone who wasn’t deaf in the restaurant and on the surrounding pier could hear.

“Have we been seated near an audition for the Real Housewives of Some Other Shitty City?” some dude with skinny jeans and gauged ears was saying so only his table could hear.

Nothing, is what his partner in sarcasm was saying, because though he wanted to let his friend know that his remark was humorous, he could not allow so much as one genuine, positive expression to seep from inside him into the atmosphere. For instance, a laugh. Just farts, carbon dioxide, and cynicism. He hadn’t the wit to compound the joke, so silence. Nothing to hear.

“Please, god, even if you never do anything good for me again, please let this bitch order dessert,” is what the vengeful chef was saying under his breath, so only the popcorn shrimp could hear. This matter was out of god’s hands, so the prayer went unanswered. Continue reading This Fish Tastes Terrible