Sharks? Not in my Fucking Tree!

I can’t think of a worse way to depart.

Head first down a shark, with the smell of distinctly unbrushed shark breath, rotting fish, blood and sea water, as well as digestive juices, seeing fellow prongees: fish that are also pronged upon a miserable shark tooth and give you a look which you return; the realisation that you are both in the same situation and your future isn’t as brief as you suddenly wish it would be.

Imagine sharing a petrified glance (whilst the rest of you flails in appreciation for the final few minutes you inhabit) with a fish.

Imagine being in the same situation as a fish.

The food chain is a horrible thing not to be paramount of.

This is why we should eat lions and sharks; so they know and there’s no confusion.

All sharks should find themselves tinned at some juncture.

And don’t animal rights me, oh reader darling.

You must understand that if we weren’t land lubbers (ohhhhhhhhh watch me lubber you cunt of the ocean) then those dim-eyed bastards would be the center of our nightmares, waking or a’slumber.

Here’s a challenge.

Watch someone being eaten by a shark next to you and then proceed to relax.

I double dare you to enjoy your day following the toothing of the neighbour you once neighboured in the water.

I avoid the neck-deep ocean, but I do have a contingency plan for the event of a shark assault (probably a sexual assault at that; with the wandering teeth).

Should I see the faintest suggestion of a protruding fin or flipper in my own personal piece of ocean, I will calmly wind my way back to shore (at a leisurely speed of sound) and proceed to kiss the first grain of sand I encounter and then climb the nearest sturdy tree, clutching a collection of carefully sharpened berries.

It has to end with a tree well climbed as that way, in the off-chance of any sudden evolutionary advancements in sharks being able to walk, I’ll at least have a few million years of life to enjoy before the flippers become proficient tree climbers.

And when they shake my fruit from their branch, we’ll have a discussion-most-stabby with these sharks of the tree.

Not in my fucking tree mate.

A man’s tree is like his body; keep sharks out of it.

Not only are they the greatest threat to humanity, aside from our own propensity to procreate ourselves into to starved, traffic-tired and generally pissed off people, but they’re a tad dainty in the ole’ dramatics.

Have you seen the way they leap out of the water?

“Ooh la la, feel my splash!”

Fuck them for that too.

They do in the wild what orcas are trained to do at Sea World.

It feels as though they’re attempting to merge their way in and amongst us, slowly enjoying the privilege of being inland rather than outfield in the wetter world, just biding their time until the chance to bite our species, figuratively and literally, in half…you’ll find me in my tree.

They say you should punch them in the nose if they dare to get too curious in the chewiest sense of the word.

I’d prefer to be eaten by them on the grounds of it being a somewhat less fucking stupid idea.

That being so, I still appreciate the fuck-you-final-fight of the fighting/deceased.

You have to kick and thrive in the mouth because there’s not much else to do at this juncture.

Less so kill or be killed, more so kick ‘em in the tonsils as they seek to swallow.

I could go on by I’ve an overwhelming urge to make clear this following position, though I may already have:

Fuck you sharks.

Fuck you all.

Here’s to Japan, go get’em.

Land Lubbers for Life…although I also feel comfortable taking to the air as I feel I could fuck up an eagle (ruffle its feathers and cute little talons).