Eels and Candy

Biologists, as I'm sure you've heard, have finally found the spawning grounds of the freshwater eel, an unsolved mystery for hundreds of years. To celebrate, the Ostrich crew is swimming to the Sargasso Sea this weekend, to high-five those stubborn, randy murder-tubes and congratulate them on their epic journeys.

While we're away, here's a poem from Evelyn West, which we hope you'll—tolerate.

Hi, it's me, Evelyn! It's almost county fair season, which is my favorite season, and I wrote you a poem about the best thing at the fair.

Cotton Candy
by Evelyn West

My beef with candies, most of the time,
is they're hardly bigger than a dime; a choc
olate bar could stand to be taller, if they
think they can charge you eight whole dollars.
The candymen have all gone rotten, ex
cept for the one that sells the cotton.

You go to the cotton candy stand,
and stand in line and hold out your hand,
and fork over some of your hard-earned bread,
and he gives you a cloud as big as your head!
It's pink and it's fluffy and looks like a booger,
but it's ninety percent sweet, white, refined sugar.

It smells like a spray at the hair salon,
like rubber cement in a sweet sauvignon,
but I love it so much that my mouth gets all wet.
—and then comes the part that I always forget.
Like summer on 'lectrified roller skates,
You taste it once and it
evap
or
a
t
e
s