Loded

Every so often the rebellious baked bean that works the controls in my brother-in-law's brain will decide that the day has not been exciting enough, and he will make a beeline for the nearest gimmick, bad idea or purchasable object in the vicinity. One of the recent consequences of these sporadic impulses is that we have a lobster in the workroom.

Now, upon the novelty of these things fading, Mr. Baked Bean will suddenly be struck by an ingenious thought. What if [_____][1] were to assume responsibility for the care for this item? Then the mighty Bean would be free to resume imperative activities such as devouring the bread and juice that [_____][2] bought today, for what use would he have for them?

[1]

    Insert my name here.

[2]

    And again.

Through this process, I have a plethora of hand-me-downs lurking in corners, under books, behind heaps of naturally-occurring room-debris and so forth, now including a dog and a lobster. The former is not altogether keen on the latter, though Wink (As I have dubbed my clawed acquaintance) is unphased by the dog's growling in the sanctity of his tank.

                                                      Le dog.

Unfortunately the lobster has declined an interview, instead squeezing himself into his driftwood pile where he cannot be photographed. This is the best shot I could get of him, mostly one claw with an eye and a couple of antennae.

Not even the presence of the dog could coax him out. In any case, they make an adorable pair.

Til next time. 

Rest your trigger on my finger

Bang my head upon the faultline