The sea shore is the worst possible location for Sally to sell seashells
You son of a beach
This is gonna get out of sand
It's the only way she can survive since she broke her spine in that horrible butter-churning accident. She drags herself across the beach at low tide every dawn, clawing at the wet sand, spitting out mouthfuls of salt water from errant waves, dodging piles of medical waste as best she can, just to get a half-full basket of shells that she sells to passing tourists on the boardwalk beneath which she sleeps.
She secretly hopes that one morning, the swells will roll far out to sea, exposing vast acres of unsearched sand in the golden light of the morning, only to return in a towering tsunami promising the sweet release of death. Tumbling through the rushing torrent, her lungs filling with saltwater and flotsam, seconds away from the comfort of oblivion, her last thought will be about .
The famous tongue-twister is anecdotally attributed to Mary Anning, an English archaeologist in the early 19th Century, a time that wasn't (let's face it) wasn't very accepting of Educated Women. Respect
Water we waiting for? Let's make some more puns!
I hate you.
Please marry me <3
Of coarse you had to pun your comment
Because you only get to really find good ones twice a day when the tide is out. It’s not actually that absurd to sell seashells by the sea shore.