Goldfish Crackers
GOLDFISH CRACKERS
By Samuel Merrin
I eat them in quantities upwards of three at a time. The crunch of a single cheddar goldfish is hollow and empty, with little substance to merit the act of chewing. Three or four are a good amount. Five would be gluttonous.
I wonder who makes the eyes. Are they made with small sewing needles? Because I have always imagined that grandmothers with small sewing needles poke out the eyes. The rest of the goldfish creation process may well be automated, with stainless steel mold presses and expertly-fashioned conveyor belts. But, in the deepest part of soul, I know there is a room full of grandmothers with sewing needles paid a just wage to grant sight to billions of orange crackers.
I was drinking water while I ate the crackers, which depressed me because I realized that goldfish are but a sad imitation, incapable of reenacting the very essence of their shimmering, nautical muse. Pepperidge Farm Goldfish can't swim. They get soggy and disintegrate in water. Water is an anathema to them rather than a lifeblood.
I must admit that I make this statement entirely without regard for the scientific method. Instinct tells me that they will float. But I am unwilling to test this experiment because doing so would mean wasting not only goldfish crackers but my glass of water, which I have gone to great lengths to commandeer.
I wonder, briefly, if this kind of general malaise is why science has not yet brought us evidence of life on other planets.
I have reason to believe there might be goldfish crackers on the one of Saturn's moons.
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I am Samuel Merrin the Great, Genius and Philosophizer-Librarian.
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