The first time my dad and I went abalone diving, he had to call a family friend to get the rundown on how to prep them.
The instructions were:
"Yeah, you jest pop'em out de shell and put dem in an ol' pillacase. You den whack Der backs real firm-like on de ground. De loose up and eat real tenda."
"Uh, yeah, sure. I'll do that, Larry," said my dad. ...and he did. Word for word, without deviation.
I stood in front of my dad to follow the technique and watched closely. He skillfully popped one out of the shell as if he'd done it a million times, slipped it into a pillowcase with all the confidence in the world, and then smashed that delicious snail down on the driveway with a swing that would make John Henry shed a tear.
The result was a shadow of a 11 year-old me left on the side of the house. The aerosoled innards escaped that old pillowcase and covered me from head to toe with that poor ab's briny bowels. The green gust of guts stained our driveway, the side of the house, and left me looking jaundiced for the better part of a week.
My dad made an angry call to old Larry thinking we had been pranked. Larry, meanwhile, thought that there would be enough brains between us to figure out to remove the squishy bits pre-slam