The poof lifespan of a goldfish makes it a rotten pet, but when Margot and Greta were little, I let them bring one home if they a) won an award or b) insisted.  I warned the girls about this flaw in the nature of house-carp, but they always convinced me that they could man up if push came to flush.  So with this species' Achilles heel in mind, we named our first goldfish "Indy," which was an acronym for "I'm Not Dead Yet."  When he/she became dead, I gave a touching eulogy, in which the fish was renamed Nid, an acronym for "Now I'm Dead."  

In my commemorative speech, I remembered Then-Indy's finest quality, which was his/her petit(e) stature.  I thanked him/her for not growing to the a size of a koi fish, because koi fish make me gag. Most of them are grotesquely oversized for their artificial environments, and they look pathetic, like Clydesdales rolling around in a jumpy castle.  Koi are actual fish right? Yet they seem to be always gulping for air.  They are the Jabba the Hutts of the fish kingdom, the embodiment of gluttony.  They look up at you as though to say, "Lady, check again. There's gotta be another fortune cookie in your coat pocket." 

After my speech, we closed the lid of the toilet.  But before we pushed the handle, we opened it again because what kind of freaks don't want to watch that spiral thing happen to whatever they're flushing?