What did the poor tuna do to deserve being canned or pouched? It’s bad enough that they are ugly as turds and their plight gets overshadowed by hanging out with the dolphins. (“Screw the fish! Save Flipper!”) No, they have to get chopped into bits, vacuum-packed in some way, and end up in a mystery casserole by misguided people worrying about their Omega-3s.
I think the people responsible have to be Scandinavian.
My scars over canned tuna fish come from my parents. I knew it would be a sad Friday during Lent when the odor of the open tin would barricade itself through my bedroom door and turn me into a dry heaving waste of flesh. (Kryptonite was supposed to be canned tuna, but the Catholics put a stop to that.) Of course, I would refuse to eat the tuna no matter how Mom would doctor it, and I would be accused of “not knowing what ‘good’ is” because I had the will to live.
At least, Mom only made cold tuna salad. She never subjected me to concoctions involving canned cream of celery soup, cheese food, and egg noodles. And she certainly didn’t venture into this:
Or bought something that could be a euphemism for a bodily secretion:
Oh yes, please enlarge the photos to show more detail of how you extracted all the taste and goodness out of poor defenseless fish, you twats!
I hate people.
But one positive thing has come from canned tuna.
Jingles have never sounded better, but this is still no excuse to eat fish from a can.