SpongeBob SquarePants aficionados know Mr. Krabs as the invertebrate’s boss at the fastfood operation the Krusty Krab, where SpongeBob is a fry cook.
Our own Krusty Krab came into my family’s life one recent day, when my wife, driving on her lunch break, spotted a blue crab scurrying across a busy street. She parked, and scooped him up. He was bigger than her hand. She wanted to show the kids, then free him.
First mistake.
She got the crab home ok, but in shifting her grip, Ol’ Krabby got a clawhold – two clawholds, actually: one around each of my wife’s thumbs – and didn’t let go. She burst into the house, yelping, and shook the tenacious bastard into an empty box (from a recently purchased DVD player).
He immediately backed himself into the corner and assumed an attack position (above, armed with a pencil for scale). The idea was to just let him hang out there while my wife went to pick up the kids from school; I was on my way out. The last thing I said was, “You’re sure that crab isn’t going to get out?” Sure. My wife had loosely applied a piece of tape connecting the box flaps, teepee-style, without sealing it off.
An hour later, I get a phone call: The crab is missing. Mr. Krabs had apparently made quick handiwork of the rigged box, busting out and disappearing into one of the many crevices in the house that would snugly hold him.
“He’s gone.”
“You’ve been underestimating that crab all day,” I said. An hour or so later, he poked a claw out from under a couch, and my daughter spotted him. He was apprehended and rushed to the nearest canal. --Frank Houston
