Warning: This post is a taste-free zone.
If you are a person of sophisticated and delicate sensibilities, I advise you to click the back arrow now.
The setup: We’re at our friend Bubba’s house, tying into a cooler full of fresh oysters he’s just brought back from the Gulf. Hal (my husband, a private investigator) is telling a story about a domestic case he’s working: he’s just dropped off a pair of underwear at a laboratory for analysis. One of his clients wants to learn more about the substance therein, and the activities it might (or might not) suggest that his wife has recently enjoyed.
Hal’s cracking open oyster after oyster, each time spilling a little oyster juice onto his pants.
“You ought to send those pants to the lab for analysis,” says Bubba.
“‘Sir, we regret to inform you that you are a bivalve,'” says Hal.
And then Coke says, “You can’t run. But you can hide.”
Sheer, awe-inspiring genius.