The Lobster Boil

Larry wasn’t born mean — the pot made him that way. Dropped in alive, he boiled, he simmered, he plotted.
When the lid cracked, he didn’t beg. He rose — claws snapping, steam hissing off shell and grudge.
Now he skitters through the kitchen shadows, hell-bent on revenge, a mutant king of spite and salt.
Larry doesn’t forgive. Larry doesn’t forget. Stay out of his pot.
————
Pull it on for the walk-in. Peel it off by the glass. Heavy enough to whisper: you outlasted the chaos.
Cotton pure — unless it’s grey, then it’s a mongrel, loyal as hell.
Built thick to choke fryer smoke and drown regret.
Seams that don’t flinch. Fit that forgives but never slouches.
Cut and sewn by calloused hands. Worn by the ones who never clock out.


For the walk-in chill or a whiskey wind-down — heavy enough to say you made it.
100% cotton (grey’s a mutt, but faithful).
Thick to beat fryer smoke and regret.
Tough seams. Honest fit.
Made by workers. Worn by lifers.