I went to the crab races at the Nauti Crab last Thursday. I go for the popper balls and a good laugh—but the real show is watching tourists bring their kids like it’s a petting zoo. We try to warn people, but they never listen.
Right at 5:45, in walks this fresh little family from somewhere polite—Minnesota, maybe. Mom in a crisp white visor, Dad with a GoPro strapped to his chest, and three kids sticky with sunscreen and dreams. They grab a front-row table, all smiles, waving to Krista like they’re about to see a puppet show.
That’s when Rob gets the mic. Drink in hand. Zero hesitation.
“Alright folks, welcome to the wettest race in San Pedro—unless you knew my ex-girlfriend when rent was due!”
Krista’s behind the bar already rolling her eyes. She doesn’t even flinch anymore.
Rob grins and keeps going.
“Okay, let’s pull the crabs out—speaking of pull-outs, my couch pulls out… I don’t.”
The mom gasps. The dad nearly inhales his drink. The kids are just excited the crabs are out of the bucket. Krista walks past me headed to the kitchen like she’s trying to escape.
Then Rob leans in and goes,
“Let’s see who finishes first—don’t worry, ladies, I’ve got a few minutes before my wife comes back!”
The bar explodes.
And the youngest kid, maybe six years old, turns to his dad and says:
“That guy sounds like you on the phone when Mommy’s at yoga.”
The dad turns beet red.
The mom turns colors I’ve never seen before.
And I about fall off my barstool.
The events and characters depicted in Wolfe’s Woofer by Melody S. Wolfe are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The column is intended for satire and entertainment purposes only.
