The ambiguity of our crab's predicament is thought-provoking. Is he chef—as
suggested by the ever-present, erect puffiness of that damn hat—or main
course—as suggested by the special blue plate he's standing on? Or is he
both, directing the efforts of his sous-chefs? "No, a rolling boil, I
said! I gar-on-tee I'll be juicy!"
The cheerful snap of his claw (note the two motion lines!) and toothy grin
give us permission to dunk him in boiling water, tear his legs off, and get
those delicious Cajun seasonings all over our shirtfronts.
Yes, yes, I admit that the smiling victim is more appetizing than the
alternative—the shrieking pain of innocence slaughtered.
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