I have never concerned myself with food safety. Such worries are best left to fools, children, and mystics.
Why bother having an immune system if you are going to spend so much time and care not poisoning yourself?
I have better things to do.
The full truth of my tuna indulgence was too verbose for the four-panel comic. Tuna sandwiches are not just procured in celebration of Freyja’s day; I also get them in recognition of life’s minor victories, the Josh equivalent of a Super Shaggy Sandwich. You know, like completing a particularly grueling day’s work or telling a really funny joke that makes a cute girl fall in love or understanding a great cosmic mystery.
Life is full of such minor victories, actually.
Besides, one can only put so much stock into this quicksilver quibbling. It isn’t our fault fish can’t efficiently excrete trace metals. It isn’t our fault they are tasty. If blame must be placed, surely it rests squarely on their slippery consciences.
At any rate, I’m banking on the fact that superpowers are a side effect of mercury poisoning.