Thoughts on a Dead Crab as it Rots in the Sand

The smell of crab is distinct, whether it's cooked or decomposing in the sun. If I touch it, it will be dry and crispy. It might fall apart in my hand if I try to pick it up.
Seeing a dried-out crab washed up on the beach is just as sad as a bird hitting my livingroom window and cracking its skull. However, a bird dive-bombing into one of a thousand windows on a skyscraper is sadder than the previous two.

Is a bird splattered against a skyscraper just as sad as a duck stuck in one of those plastic six-pack rings? Only with the duck you can at least have a chuckle about how silly it looks; the duck's ignorance about its silly appearance is kind of funny, too, if you're the type of person who can appreciate cruel irony.
There's not much about a dead crab that could be called funny.
In fact, if you stare at a dead crab long enough, you can feel the joy inside you solidify into a tight ball of depression that lives in your belly. The only thing that can bring you out of it is to think of something even more depressing and be glad that a dead crab is all you have to deal with:

A puppy smushed by an SUV.
Baby birds stumbling out of the nest for the first time only to fall to the ground far below and break their little necks.
A fully-grown man repeatedly saying "ex-scape" or "ex-spresso."
A child who has just learned that adults lie.

...

Guess what? Obama is the only president known to have killed pirates. I bet JFK picked off a few when he was in the Navy that we just don't know about. Even cooler, Somali pirates have vowed revenge on the US.
Also, Newt Gingrich is a fucktard. But everyone probably already knew that.