Lobster, I think it’s best that I start plainly:
I love you.
You are fucking ugly. But I love you.
Just now, as I gaze upon your visage, I am reminded of the Predator.
He is an ugly fictional creature whereas you are an ugly real creature. Coincidence!
More than anything, you must understand that I have nothing against you or your way of life. Okay, well maybe those giant claws are a bit frightening in theory, but I suppose you would never level them against my kind unless you were provoked.
And I suppose you are being provoked, if you have to nitpick and say being picked up by boats and having bands constrain your claws counts as provocation.
But that is neither here nor there. Know this, Lobster:
Your insides are delicious.
I have, since childhood, had the honor of devouring the meat of your ancestors and whether boiled, baked, or fried, they have never let my taste buds down.
Sure, this sounds horrifying to you, but let me assure you that this is just a statement of admiration regarding the nature of your kind. It is my sincerest hope that you find this praise palatable.
No one in my family draws a sadistic pleasure from hearing your species clink and clank in the steel prison atop our stove, but the sad truth of the matter is that it means you’ll soon be ready for our tummies – and why wouldn’t we be happy about that?
Also, tangent but the restaurant that shares your name has amazing cheese bread. But back to how delicious y’all are:
Do you like lemons? And butter? Because it would cheer me up at least a little bit to know that in your death, parts of you are soaking in something you loved in life. So, in a way, it’s not so bad, yeah?
Again, I love you, Lobster. But this love – it can only be shown with my mouth.
And one of those cracker-thingies.