I am sitting at the bar in a tropical-themed bar and grill, drinking and talking with my grandfather. Papaw is having whiskey and I'm having beer. He's not eating, but I've just finished an unusual dish. It's ground beef, onions, tomato, mushrooms, cheese and clam mixed up together and baked and served in a clamshell. It is, in fact, a "clamburger." It was delicious. I'm sitting there, considering the dish, and I think, "That was good. I could have another..."Why has my brain decided to torture me with such obvious, thick-as-a-brick, not to mention crude and vulgar, symbolism? Since the Holy Hobgoblin is a fiction, one has to wonder how human beings evolved to get any utility out of such a weird mental process.
Clamburger in paradise? Some days, my subconscious seems hell bent on embarrassing me.
"A woman wants a bad guy to be nice just for her. A man wants a nice girl to be bad just for him." -- anonymous commenter from the internet
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