Cajun Carl the Unboilable Crawfish
During crawfish season I agreed to help a friend with a crawfish boil for his housewarming party. Little did I know that I was stumbling upon a story of biblical proportions. And thus far it’s gone unnoticed by many as it pertains to the goings-on of the animal kingdom. As you know, most people couldn’t care less about the animal kingdom.
A friend and I purchased the live crawfish on a Monday and had the boil the following Tuesday. All went well, and at the end of the night, I loaded up my three coolers that had hitherto held the live crawfish into the back of the truck and made my way home.
Now, if there is one thing I hate more than being forced to rake leaves, it’s cleaning out coolers that smell like seafood. That being said, those damn coolers sat in the bed of the truck for days.
They sat there for three sunshiny New Orleans hellfire-type days until Saturday when I needed them again. I was planning on doing another boil the following day for friends and family at my house, so I grudgingly awoke early to clean them. This task was made more pleasant thanks to procrastination and three days of sun. I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
The real story begins when I got to cooler number three. When I lifted the lid, I was amazed to find one single crawfish staring back at me. He raised his claws at me in…
