I would start by asking how much they resemble actual shrimp carcasses. Recall that McDonalds famously said “100% beef” when what they really meant was “100% cow components, some of which were muscle flesh and some of which were ‘byproducts’. AKA shredded corneas.”
I’d feed the critters anything vaguely shrimplike they’re willing to wolf down. Me, I might want my shrimp to be real, not e.g. finely ground legs. 
Yeah, at least a little. But what I usually think, mindful that we’re burning 25 gallons per minute at liftoff, is something close to “I’m damn glad somebody else’s credit card is on the line for the fuel, but I sure would enjoy keeping and spending all those loyalty points!”
Today was a mix of irk and happy. Up pre-dawn, pushed off the gate early after defeating several minor challenges, broke the jet after engine start, back to the gate, blow an hour getting it fixed, push a second time, blast off zig-zagging between the volcanos on a lovely morning, arrive at the stopover city late, have problems parking wasting 10 minutes, takes forever to unload these folks who loaded so quickly, long walk off to customs & immigration, have major flail passing through TSA security to get back to the gate side of the airport then another long walk to get on the jet, meanwhile NYC has dense fog & massive delays which are finally breaking up so we leave late due to ATC metering delays who conveniently absorbs all the blame for everything else that went wrong upstream, have a paperwork SNAFU crisis off the gate that we have to defeat, followed by a mad flail to launch in a hurry to avoid missing our reserved slot in the flow to NYC followed by a pleasant drone there except alternating between going max speed and trying to hover to find our exact slot in the flow, all while the weather there clears out to be replaced by clear, cold, and very windy (read “turbulent”).
Show up over central NJ at low altitude then head north for the Verrazano to find the sun is low, the air is transparent but violently stirred up, and the clouds are gone. The whole city & exurbs, all 10 million of those difficult personalities and filthy damaged cars, is spectacular shining in the sun. I comment to my co-worker as our eyeballs are shaking: “Sometimes this job is really darn pretty.” “Yeah” was the laconic response.
Thrash our way to a survivable impact with La Guardia’s raggedy-assed pavements, park the jet, help 15 (!) people get into their wheelchairs, eventually get done w the FA’s who’re going home, wave to the crew getting on the same jet to brave the elements themselves going to wherever, then long hike through the terminal, off to the hotel where I’m typing this, eating a Rueben & a salad, and enjoying a martini.
Tomorrow promises another waay pre-dawn wake-up, pre-dawn departure from the hotel, and a barely almost dawn departure from the city. Home beckons at the other end. After a couple days to recover, we’ll do it again. And again, and again.
I’ve tried working for a living. I’d rather do this.