Ode to a Dead Salmon 2010: The Entries

ON FINDING MY DOG HAS ROLLED AT THE RIVER'S EDGE: A SALMONID SONNET
by J.J. Weicker

O Quasimodo of the silver waves,
In life’s renewal we are but brother slaves
From eternity’s pursuit to sandy shoal,
A slide from humpy love to husky’s roll.
O fishy Fate, undone desire writ large,
Your leaping skyward comes to nought but snarge;
Just like my PFD, too soon you’re spent
And form a fetid canine liniment.
In the pink of health and lust, who was the pinker?
We did not see our fall from stud to stinker
And perceived our path divine not biological,
Poor Icarus, now ick ichthyological!
Smeared on dog, your putrid truth will linger:
Time will come God bids me pull His finger.

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RUSSIAN RIVER CAMPGROUND, 5:15 A.M.
by Jerry Juday

John: But soft! What splash from yonder stream I hear?
Mary: I know not, my handsome young bushwacker.
John (peering out of tent door): Hark! In the fresh-washed light of morn I do spy the
flashing glint of moistened flanks. (Now pointing.) Yes, there! And there! And there again!
Mary (exasperated): O, foolish man, burdened with wrongheaded desires. Let the wiser
head take control.
John (enthusiastically): Lo, how my bosom swells in anticipation of stealthily stalking the brushy banks, breathing deep the fecund air, then slipping softly on rubbered soles into the intoxicating channel.
Mary: Hush now, husband! Lie back down. My bosom swells for thee. Let us brew our own
intoxication here on this airy love shingle -- my Thermarest. My loins warm it for thee.
John: „Tis sockeye . . . sockeye! The great red swarm has returned to the natal waters to
spawn. Yes, to spawn and to die. Generation after generation, they come to nuzzle the
maternal gravel. Overcoming every obstacle, unrelenting, the throng pushes and thrusts its way home, and so forth and so on, etcetera.
Mary: Yi! The nuzzling sounds good just now.
(A noise is heard, stage left.)
John: What ho? Do I discern the heavy tread of the barbed biped? The anglers are
bestirring; the game is afoot. I must make haste. (He exits the tent.)
Mary: No! Pray sir, I beseech you: do not wet your fly just yet. Leave the salmon in peace to do their spawning. That precious moment of piscine passion is so short, a mere gossamer speck in the ever flowing river of life. Tarry thou by my side just a few minutes more. Think on it, my love, do not the wriggling and the spilling of milt and egg put a notion in your head?
John: Fie, woman! Heed the words of the poet writ here upon my garb: “Ain‟t no nookie
like Chinookie.” The salmon have arrived; the course of my destiny is laid. I am off now, with rod in hand. (He departs.)
Mary (sighing): Alas, the mute salmon speak to him more eloquently than I. Still, the fish remember what he forgets. True beauty is a mate, and a mate is true beauty -- that is all we doomed creatures really know on earth and all we need to know.

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BEAUTY
by Alexia Gordon

There once was a salmon named Nod
Who had an incredible bod
Lean, swift, and scarlet
With butter and garlic
He tasted much better than cod

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ODE TO A DEAD SALMON
HAIKU SUITE
by Lynn Lovegreen

Vast ocean journey
Inscrutable birth longings
End in Alaska

We travel so far
To spawn for one brief moment
Life is cruel to us

Beautiful swimmers
What a mystery they are
And good in pasta

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OH SALMON, MY SALMON
by Alexia Gordon

Oh salmon, my salmon
Supreme among the entrees you reign
Baked, poached, grilled, steamed
Dry-smoked or pureed

Rich in omega-threes
So healthy, yet tasty, too
At only $2.99 a pound
Such a bargain

Oh salmon, my salmon
You make me gourmet

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ODE TO JELLY ROE
by Becca Lawton

(sing to tune of “Ode to Billy Joe” by Bobbie Gentry)

It was July the third, another foggy, sullen summer day.
We were paddling past the tourists who were fishing along the bay.
Then at lunchtime I pulled over to join Arthur, who’d stopped to eat.
And he hollered at the shoreline, “Just remember to watch your feet.”
He said, “I found a carcass, it’s sockeye or maybe it’s chinook.”
And it died before it made it to its home stream in the Lower Cook.

Well, I said to Arthur, as he poked the pink flesh with his paddle,
“You’d better leave it there and let it rot—we’ve got no time to dawdle.
There’s five more miles on the lower sloughs that we’ve got to travel.”
And Arthur said he couldn’t let it lie and just have it unravel.
He said, “You really ought to see this thing, it’s big as Hinchinbrook.”
And he swore he wouldn’t leave dead salmon down along the Lower Cook.

If that salmon had been female on her way to spawn and full of eggs,
you wouldn’t know she had them, they’d decayed into jellied dregs.
I could see it well enough—Arthur’d never get it into his canoe.
If he did, it’d hit the Royalex and spread around like runny glue.
And he was going to make a try for it, though I said I’d much rather book,
when Arthur wouldn’t leave dead salmon down along the Lower Cook.

Now he tried to lift that fish up from shore with one swift paddle scoop,
but it didn’t hold together and it flowed apart like hot, spilled soup.
And he asked if I could help him, maybe shovel up some with my own blade.
But I could see it was a losing proposition, and so away I stayed.
It smelled worse than rotten vomit, it was nothing you’d ever want to hook.
And Arthur and I retched like sickened dogs along the Lower Cook.

Well a year has come and gone since we came upon that smelly corpse.
Arthur scrubbed his boat for weeks but never got it clean of odors.
When he put it up for sale, he didn’t get a single bite—
even later with a “Free” sign, the canoe and its stench sat tight.
And me, any time I pass that shoreline, I make sure not to look
at the scene of decomposing salmon down along the Lower Cook.

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ODE TO THE DEAD SALMON
by Anonymous

Oh Salmon,
How I loathe your oily, fishy taste.
How I remember the time we camped in Katmai and the freezer broke.
How we feasted on you, morning, noon, and night,
Afraid that you would spoil
And all our efforts would be for naught.

Your oil strengthens the brain and heart,
But no one talks about its effects upon the gut.
How we spent hours in the outhouse
And ran out of toilet paper.

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THE TONGUE'S NEEDLE:
A TRIBUTE TO THE BOUNDER OF BRINE
by Anonymous

Man, boundless in mediocrity, gnaws at the knuckle of wild thought.
Jack Crisp, River Notebook

Do not deny the urgency of oranges,
The depth (Nay, height!) of scaled notes,
Of Lucifer’s luminescence, Pan’s simmering oils.

Fate’s fine jumper of no faint fall,
Master of the sequined quest,
A lessor god in spangled coat.

Streams pool to sooth the hollow of his night.
Netted by circumstance. Hooked by chance.
Dusty pages of his water dance slam shut.

The circling eagle bears extravagant witness.
The hare in its claw screams irony and
Compassionate stars spin concentric circles.

Finally. Finally! Served in the day room.
Served up in the day room. Alas!

Grace chimes, Gentle Reader. No. Grace bellows!
The fallen bounder (He(!), of wave and slough)
Needles with pin bones and each prick sounds –
An urgent oration of accusation and awe.

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WHO KILLED COCK SALMON? A NEO-SALMON NEW CLASSIC
by Alexia Gordon

“He’s dead, all right, deader than a doornail. He smells like three day old fish.”
“That’s because he is a fish, Pete, and he’s been dead for three days.”
We were staring at the body of King “Cock” Salmon, once upon a time the baddest fish in the Kenai River. He controlled all the rackets on the Peninsula—numbers, protection, loan sharking, roe smuggling—anything that would make a dishonest fish a buck. Now he was just another piece of chum rotting away in a back room in a nameless flop house in the red gill district.
“Who do you think did it, Mac? Coho’s gang? Or maybe the Sockeyes?”
“Damned if I know, Pete. Ol’ King had a lot of enemies.”
As if on cue the door swung open and Sparrow Fox stepped into the room. Sparrow was Cock’s long-time companion, although what a gorgeous bird like her saw in a fish like him was anybody’s guess.
“Don’t come any closer, Sparrow,” I said. “You don’t want to see this.”
She kept coming. Pete hurried over and got a grip on a wing.
“Just hold on a second, sister.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked, tears welling in her eyes.
“Yeah, he’s dead. What do you know about it?”
“Take it easy, Pete. No need to ruffle her feathers.”
“I think she knows more than she’s letting on, Mac. I say we take her back to the station. A couple of hours in the cage, we’ll make her squawk.”
Sparrow pulled free of Pete’s grasp. “No, not that, please. I couldn’t stand it.”
She turned away and covered her face. Sobs wracked her pretty shoulders. I went to her and put my arm around her. She rested her head against my chest.”
“Careful, Mac,” said Pete, “She’ll wrinkle your suit.”
I gave Pete the look he deserved.
“You’re not falling for this, are you, Mac? That bird’s crying crocodile tears sure as I’m standing here.”
“Why don’t you shut yer yap, Pete? Can’t you see she’s all broken up over this?”
“Can’t you see she’s putting you on? I bet she knows who did it. I bet it was that no-good brother of hers, what’s his name, Dog House Fox.”
Sparrow’s head snapped up. She shot Pete a look meaner than the one I’d given him. “His name’s Todd. And he’s no killer.”
“Nah, he’s a regular altar boy. Guess that wasn’t him who got busted at the Hen House Club last week.”
Sparrow grabbed my lapels. “Please, Mac,” she pleaded, “You’ve always been so kind to me.”
I put my hands on her shoulders and took a step back. I had a hunch that I’d better keep this chick at arm’s length. “Sparrow,” I said, “if your brother’s mixed up in this you can’t protect him. If you know something you’re not telling us—“
Sparrow looked away. “I confess, Mac, I did it.”
I tightened my grip on her shoulders. I wanted to shake her. “Sparrow, taking the rap for your brother—“
She turned her face towards me. As soon as I looked into her eyes I knew she was telling the truth.
“It was I,” said Sparrow. “With my dip net and club, I killed Cock Salmon.”
“Why, Sparrow, why?”
“I had no choice, Mac, you must believe me. “
“I thought you loved him,” said Pete.
“What’s love got to do with it? King was blackmailing me. I was the one who set Papa Bear up to take the fall during that berry heist six months ago. King threatened to turn me over to the Grizzlies if I didn’t—if I didn’t—oh, it’s too terrible.” Sparrow hung her head. “I had to kill him, don’t you see?”
“Murder’s never the answer, Sparrow. You should have come to me. I could have protected you.”
“Protect me now, Mac. It’s not like I killed a good fish. No one will miss him.”
I put my fingers under her chin and tilted her face up. I wanted one last look into those soft brown eyes. “I’m sorry, sugar, but you killed King and you’re going over for it. If they don’t hang you by that pretty neck, maybe I’ll be waiting for you when you get out. Take her away, Pete.”
Pete put cuffs on her and hustled her out of the room. I followed, pausing in the doorway to take a last look at Cock. Poor dead salmon. Sparrow was right. No one would miss him. No one would shed a tear for him, not even a crocodile one.

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ODE TO A DECEIVED DEAD SALMON
by Anonymous

Oh deceived dead salmon, I truly never thought
That by Alaska’s Mama Grizzly, you would ever be caught
Not by her paws, did you meet your demise
This mama bear just destroyed you with lies

As you were swimming, she began her instigation
Announcing you were heading to the wrong destination
And little did you then realize that she was just stringing you along
When she said, "Mama Bears kinda just know when something is wrong"

"Follow me," she shouted, "I can be your new leader"
Oh, how tragic it was when you decided to heed her
For she convinced many fish to abandon their schools
Saying their lives would be better with much fewer rules

So you and some other salmon just altered your course
Trusting Mama Grizzly instead of avoiding that source
Dazzled by her looks, you just couldn’t see
How her speeches were dripping with hypocrisy

She promised you a life - independent, hale and hearty
With a place for each salmon at her favorite tea party
She said she wouldn’t hurt you because she preferred honey
But the truth of it is, , she was more enchanted by money

Mama Grizzly didn’t believe very much in sharing
And for you, poor salmon, there wasn’t much caring
But you just couldn’t see her egocentric condition
Nor the extent of this grizzly bear’s true ambition

"Every salmon for himself," said Mama Grizzly, said she
"Fish in need will get no help - not from me nor from thee"
But you worshiped her, dear salmon, till a disease in your bone
Left you hurting and helpless as you struggled alone

What’s happening?" you cried, "Has my bone been infected
By another oil leak which those humans have neglected?
She replied as you died, "If the oil’s gonna getcha
It’s the government’s fault. Doggone it! You betcha"

Ode to a Dead Salmon Entries

Entries to our Ode to a Dead Salmon contest are posted below, in order by date. Check back often for new submissions. Copyright belongs to the authors. NUMBERS are for tagging purposes only.

NUMBER ONE 8-11-09 Kasilof Submitted by Rosemary, aka bikegirl

Ah, silvery beauty pulled from my net,
left torn and twisted
by your powerful struggle,
all urges calling you like the North Star guiding shepherds,
or prospectors
up the pebbled river
with its murky glacial-fed water
colder than this ocean
from where I have pulled you over the bow onto my lap.

Caught as you were in a sqaure of the net,
tied and retied at the beginning of each season,
the gap just large enough to allow you in
yet keep you from passing through or backing out.
Your quest denied.
Still powerful and persistent, like the ocean waves
but no, not for you.
Your urges denied.
Like those of a teenager escorted to the dance
by her mother.
Denied, though you don’t know:
This is your prime!
After this, it would be all suffering:
The struggle upstream, up rapids,
past bank fishermen, boat fishermen, bears,
up and up until that moment when you have lost your lustre
shaken your bootie and in satisfaction, inevitable:
Disappointment.
That’s it?
With this, I die?

But here I have removed you from my net
at your prime.
Entangled there just long enough
your flip has about flopped.
Now I hold your cold, stiff, slimy wet body
pull you to my lips.
And with a salty kiss, I thank you,
let you slide into my empty bucket.
Satisfied!


NUMBER TWO 8-11-09 You Don't Lose Your Woman Submitted by Rosemary, aka bikegirl

Anyone could see he was no pretty Lower-48 yuppie mountain climber here for a guided trip to conquer Denali, the Great One. Not one fluff of fleece on his body as he leaned against the bar in Talkeetna, looking at a painting of the mountain with little flags marking locations of climbers on its flanks. No North Patagucchi for him. Nope, he was all Alaskan. From his Ketchikan sneakers to his worn-in Carhartts, his red and black flannel shirt all the way to his stocking cap, loosely knit of tan marled yarn, thick, like what someone would wear if they were spending a lot of time out on the water in the wind. His face was unshaven, tan and windburned because he had, in fact, been out on the water. He lifted a beer to his lips and took a long drink. He made a face, puckering his lips, and paused, holding the glass in the air as he rested his elbow on top of the bar. The best IPA was like him - bitter. And he had reason to be.

After returning from a season on the boat, a short season at that, he realized the adage his buddies had joked about was true. He’d lost his turn. His woman was gone. Karen had packed up all her things and moved in with Wayne. He took another drink. Well, he thought, though he could have said it aloud, and maybe he had because the bartender, Gus, looked up and nodded in apparent response when he heard, “Well, guess this is how ol’ Wayne felt when she left him and moved in with me.”

NUMBER THREE 8-11-09 All that Glitters Submitted by Rosemary, aka bikegirl

For a year the media did drool
On the web and cable ‘twas a virtual duel
I ask, may we return now to the days
when yodeling we did praise
And the most famous Alaskan was Jewel?

NUMBER FOUR 8-10-09 Submitted by Toni

So there I was at the luau, pining for pines, and some fur trees - you know that scent they give off in the forest - and wishing for a little birch sap under my sandals to stick them to the pavement and maybe a squirrel or a moose would whiz by just so I could get a glimpse of some wildlife besides the feral farm animals I usually see. I guess a moose wouldn’t whiz by, though would most definitely whiz. I mean, he’d notice that there were no alder saplings to munch and realize he was in Hawaii and that would probably scare the whiz and everything else right out of him. So there, at the luau, I was feeling homesick for Alaska even though I don’t live there. Is that weird? Being homesick for a place you don’t live but not feeling quite at home in the place where you do live? Yeah, I’d say that was weird. People visit Hawaii all the time and never leave. I could see myself doing that in Alaska, as long as I could spend a week or two each January here.

Where was I? Ah. The Luau. Now, kalua pork always makes me feel better about being here in the islands. There I stood at my spot in the long buffet line, having just tonged out a wad of the stuff and plopped it, in all its juicy, greasy, shredded splendor onto my plate (try saying juicy, greasy, shredded splendor fast three times) when, upon taking another step, found myself staring down into a giant bowl of lomi salmon. Lomi. As in massaged, to knead, to mix. There’s lomi lomi and huli huli. Spun around. That’s me. Mixed up and spun around. There’s not much contrast in a bowl of lomi salmon, the blush of salmon chopped to bits, salty and definitely dead, dead, dead. The tomatoes are also deceased, a washed-out hothouse hue, and the onions, not cooked but translucent none-the-less. No, not much contrast at all. You can hardly spot the flecks of salmon from the chunks of tomato. It’s not like the difference between Alaska and Hawaii. People make the comparison all the time. Forty-nine and fifty, like you could actually get confused regarding which state you were in if you didn’t read the signs at the airport. Native culture. Natural splendor. Our senators are friends with Alaskan senators. Kindred spirits, they say. Bosom buddies. And everybody eats fish in both places. Apparently, the same fish. It spawned on me: there are no salmon in Hawaii. Why then, is lomi salmon a traditional dish at luaus? It’s in the deli at all the markets here, too. People make it for holidays. Lomi salmon. It’s the blandest, most boring way to eat dead salmon that I know.

Standing there, staring into that bowl of salted fish flesh, I had just returned from a fresh trip to the great white north, where people seem a little more rugged and self sufficient than anyplace else. And they know their fish, especially salmon. An Alaskan can tell by smell on the grill if it’s king or coho or sockeye. Here, any salmon will do. Even (now don’t pass out here) farmed salmon. I know the mere thought of such a thing is blasphemy of the highest order in the last frontier. In Hawaii, it just has to be pink, salty and chopped fine. With lomi salmon, you can’t really taste the fish, let along smell it. Dead tuna is something different. People know about that here, and while the native Hawaiians are accomplished fishermen and eat their share, it’s the locals of Japanese decent who know best their yellow fin from their big eye. No steaming chunks in banana leaves for them. It’s all raw, all the time. They are connoisseurs of different cuts of tuna, just like any true midwesterner knows a filet mignon from a sirloin. So in that way, Hawaii and Alaska are the same. We know our local fish. Really though, it seems a copout to steal someone else’s pride and joy and make it your own, claim it as a part of your culture, as with lomi salmon. It would be like the Tlingit suddenly deciding to serve poi at all their celebrations.

What does all this mean? Are Alaska and Hawaii the same or different? Don’t ask me. I’m lomi lomi, as I said, all mixed up. All I know is, when a salmon is dead, it should be appreciated, not camouflaged in minced tomatoes, its rich flavor obscured by salt and onions. It should be savored in it’s purest state. After all, the poor fish has passed on. He’s gone to meet his maker. Belly up as they say. Kicked the bucket. So give a scaly buggah a break, will ya?


NUMBER FIVE 8-7-09 Submitted by Arctic Rose

Here's to the salmon that graces
the line at the end of my pole
He hangs there cold and lifeless
He will never know what it is to be old
He gave his life and generations
to be baked on a bed of coal

Here's to the salmon that graces
my table at dinner time
The kids are all in there places
Hunger makes a pink taste fine
Quickly we say our respects
the wife uncorks a bottle of wine

Here's to the salmon that graces
the bottom of my garbage pail
He used to have flesh in more places
now his back is skinny as a rail
A hearty cheer for dear old salmon
and that is the end of his tail


NUMBER SIX 8-5-09 Ode to Stinkin’ Submitted by Fisher Girlfriend

Dead salmon in the middle of the path stinking to high heaven—Ancient folk song (Circa, 1973).

O Humpy! An eagle dropped you in the park,
a cyclist ran over you in the dark.
O beautiful salmon! Putrefied and parched
atop you a hundred tourists marched.

And there you decayed and stank in the sun,
when I happened on you during a morning run.
I paused to move you from the path
so as not to encounter a bruin’s wrath.

But then, O Humpy! I saw your eyes
and thought you must have once been wise.
to swim so far from the ocean’s deep,
navigating currents your scent did keep.

You finned and spermed in the riverbed
and left your babies on the mud-bank’s edge.
Sad now, though, those sloughing scales,
but your end is better than my own sad tale.

O Humpy! I buried you beside the trail
and then at once I started to wail.
See, I’d been out there runnin’ and a thinkin’
about my ole’ man and all his drinkin’.

Bout how his eyes are glossy and thick
and when he smooches me, I just feel sick.
His hugs feel more like a nasty squish,
no six-pack abs as I’d once wished.

O Splendid Humpy!
Lover or fish, does it really matter?
Seems I'd rather smell the rot of the latter.
But what’s an Alaskan girl to think

cause after a while—they all start to stink.


NUMBER SEVEN 7-29-09 Submitted by Lesley

"Why as a Mighty Salmon I Will Not Leave"

Do not cry for me, I shall not leave
those who share my love
my spawn
I swim against the great river that is ours thereon

'neath soaring peaks and o'er frost heaves
put here to remind that I am me
why I am me
that I am humbly great

Nature calls me to my dream so that my scales slip off the sexist critique
(for the fact that I have eggs and vast stores of oil)
and like chill water off the feathers of the migratory goose so courageously
departs
corruptions of an evil coast elite

so shall I too defy the hooks and devious nets of socialist media
who seek to filet and hang me to dry
but I shall never die

I repel those maggots and sea lice that infest
by leaps across the surge chill waters pure
very like brave soldiers sent to save our cherished Land

not fish but woman and man
for I am best
and writhe against cruel microscopes of logic choppers
scientists who work for godless enemy's behest
Their secret motives bald
but mightier than they for I am called
I will not decay yet I shall spawn
and swim against the flow 'til all else is gone

NUMBER EIGHT 7-28-09 Submitted by Tanja

Not fuscous, rubious, cretaceous, vinaceous, albugineous, sanguineous...
testaceous, phoeniceous... melichrous, puniceous, flammeous...
Chrysochlorous, luteolous, stramineous, porraceous, cinerious, fuliginous...
Neither badious, piceous, griseous, coccineous, brunneous, caesious, glaucous...
Icteritious, ochroleucous, lateritious, niveous, plumbeous, olivaceous...
Nor aeneous, castaneous, spadiceous, vinous, prasinous, porphyrous...
Violaceous, citreous,miniaceous, chlorochrous, atrous, cyaneous, rufous...
Or even cesious, pyrrhous, rubiginous, sulphureous, luteous, fulvous...

But. Just. Plain. Pink.
Salmon pink to be exact.

As I look into your eyes
Glazed over with the bleakness of death
In a tomb of aspic jelly,

I think of all the shades of pink
That could have been...
Fuchsia; amaranth;
Carnation; rose; lavender;

I think...
Isn’t salmon a pinkish kind of orange anyway?

Oh! Dead Salmon;
On a bed of carrageen you lie
Garnished with lemon and parsley.

Oh! Dead Salmon;
Surrounded by cucumber and tomato circles
Instead of peers, parr and smolts...
After death in semelparity.

Oh! Dead Salmon
Your cousin Trout has a Pout...
And now, so do you, as you lie there
On the buffet table.

A journey of hundreds of miles, upstream, against strong currents and rapids, starts with your first agile movement... and ends on the dinner table.

Oh! Dead Salmon;
I salute you with this Ode.

NUMBER NINE 7-27-09 submitted by Anonymous

Oh dear deceased Chum , 'tis such a mournful thing
That you were never loved like the Alaskan King
For it is his remains that conniseurs have selected
While your poor body has been quickly rejected

So now as I gaze into your vacant eyes
What your life was like , I can only surmise
But it must have begun with a spawning ritual
That would be for your parents, never habitual

With their bodies quivering next to one another
Your dad did his thing and so did your mother
So did they say to you, "Little Egg", before they died
"The sex was disappointing but at least we tried"

You hatched as an orphan with orphan siblings galore
And you grew and swam aimlessly not far from the shore
But did you wonder at all before your migration
What would be your journey toward self-actualization?

Was it perhaps in the ocean when you felt most alive?
Did you then wonder toward which goal you should strive?
Did other sea creatures laugh at you with mirth
When you decided to return to the place of your birth

Against many obstacles you struggled and won
You swam back to the place where your life had begun
But then you did that spawning thing and started to die
Preparing yourself for that sweet fishy bye and bye

But now your sad corpse lies on a food market shelf
Where a beautiful King salmon is compared to yourself
And a poor Chum salmon just cannot compete
In flavor, in texture, and especially in meat

Oh will you be remembered in your children's genealogy?
As a very inferior salmon in the world's icthyology?
Yet although you were rejected, you are not a total loss
Because you're really not so bad, with enough tartar sauce