Mystery Can Ten

I remember a simpler and happier time. A time when birds used to sing joyful songs. A time when children didn't live in constant fear. A time when canned food had labels.

That time doesn't exist anymore.

I also remember a time when I made wise decisions.

Choosing to eat leftovers from earlier this week was not a wise decision. Leftovers consisted of: a tuna sandwich, yams, and jalapeño helper.

I guess I still had some hope in the world. I figured, "I have consumed a lot of terrible things this week. It can't get any worse right?"

Right?

This little can looked so tame and friendly. Like a bengal tiger behind a cage. It can't hurt you as long as it is in it's cage.

That can looks like it wouldn't hurt a fly.

Needless to say, I had no fear until I opened the can and saw this…

[[ WARNING: These pictures are graphic, disturbing, and should be rated R. They make children cry more than those "sad helpless puppy" commercials. If you have a weak stomach, please refrain from reading any more, and please do not look at the pictures. ]]

[[ I'm serious. ]]

Fish.

To be more specific: Canned Fish

To be even more specific: Canned Chub Mackerel.

I think I went fishing for Chub with my uncle once. I remember fishing for them under a bridge. They were a fun fish to catch because you didn't have to wait very long until you caught one on your line.

This was not the same "fun" fish that I remember.

This was a very terrible fish.

Now I had to look at my leftover options. There wasn't much to work with. I didn't want to heat up the fish on the stove (my house mates were already complaining about the smell, and I just opened the can). So I did what any logical person would do.

I put the fish on my tuna sandwich.

Fish + Fish = Fish

Fish + Yams = Terrifying

Fish + Jalapeño Helper = Dangerous

I decided that "Fish + Fish = Fish" was my best equation.

Surprisingly, it was not as bad as the coconut milk.

Let me rephrase that last statement.

It was as bad as the coconut milk, but it did not attempt to trigger my gag-reflex.

For a closer look at the chub mackerel, scroll down a little bit.

My stomach was officially hating me. It knew something was horribly wrong, and it didn't know how to make things better. Much like a child who has soiled itself. All it can do is cry until someone can make things better.

So I tried to make things better.

If you want a baby to stop crying…

you feed it ice-cream!

Right?

Perhaps this stomach/infant analogy was not very accurate.

Eventually I ate a graham cracker, drank a big glass of milk, and brushed my teeth. Nothing seemed to work.

Salvation.

--John D.