Kippers

I realized today that eventually I may have to have a child.  I realized this when thinking about kippers, and how I may be the only person under the age of fifty and not a sea captain who enjoys kippers.  And eventually the kipper eating population of this world may run out, leaving me kipperless among a vast and ever rising torrent of humanity who no longer care to manufacture kippers.

I don’t know how they are made, or how they get in those funny flat tins with the nifty roll back top, or if they will eventually be the crux in what powers Mom’s Friendly Robot Company (futurama reference), and because I don’t know these things, I need someone to make them for me.  And this someone will up and quit should I not eventually produce a child and teach it to love kippers.  And yes, it really has to be taught.

I learned in Nebraska, in an abandoned four plot cemetary, in the middle of a string of buttes during rattler season.  Which is, in my humble opinion, the best way to learn anything.

Or perhaps I just need to teach those around me to enjoy the dear and salty kipper.  But most folks are set in their ways.  And the boyfriend won’t even let me eat them while he’s at home.

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