It was morning and I wanted ice for my early morning iced coffee. There is a mini fridge in the hotel room, so as one does I opened the freezer and pulled out the tray of ice. I had the fortune (or misfortune) to look down into the tray before popping out a cube. Inside every little block of ice was a horrified-looking guppy, each with wide eyes and a gaping mouth as if the last thing they saw before departing this world was my face. But indeed it hadn’t been my face they’d seen. I knew whose face it was.
“Burbank!” I screamed loud enough to wake all the adjacent neighbors.
“Yes?” came a quiet voice from the hallway. Burbank had been standing outside my door because he is a concerned friend.
I swung open the door and demanded what the hell he thought he was doing putting fish in my ice, and he said it was funny, and I said it wasn’t very funny for the fish, and he said it rather was because they were going to be used as bait for bigger fish and that was certainly no way to die—betraying your fishy brethren by luring them into…a lour.
I asked him how he knew what a fish thought was funny because he’s not a fish, and he asked how I knew he didn’t know what a fish thought was funny because I wasn’t him.
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