Stop Making Excuses For Sharks

You will never get to pet one.

Find a mirror. Look at yourself. Do you look like a seal? (Hopefully, the answer is “No”). Do you whore yourself out for raw fish (not that there’s anything wrong with that)? Do you jump on every small stool that comes along and balance a ball on your nose?

You are not a seal.

Do you think that sharks don’t know that? They’ve been around for 5 billion years.* They have ginourmous eyes. I think they know the difference between a fucking seal and a fat Midwesterner trying to boogie board for the first time.

They aren’t biting you because they think your flailing limbs are a tasty young pinniped. They are biting you because you are a moron who decided to fling your mostly naked, completely defenseless — and yes, tasty — body into a shark’s kitchen. Jaws was essentially a cooking show. For sharks.

If a cow deliberately threw himself (cows are female, just keep reading) on the barbecue, you’d eat him, right? If the hamburger is jumping off the plate into your mouth, what can you do?

You are a hamburger.

Stop making excuses for sharks. They are not “misunderstood.” They are not “mistaken.” They are not “confused” like an 80-year-old woman who hits the gas instead of the brake and accidentally eats someone. They know exactly what they’re doing.

Who has an entire week dedicated to them? You? Hell no. If you get a couple of hours of concentrated attention on your birthday, you consider it a win. But sharks…

You don’t hang around for 5 billion years** without learning a thing or two about PR.

*I have no idea.

** Again, zero idea.

Legal secretary by day, insomniac by night. BA, MA. If life is a journey, I’m lost. Slackjaw, Points In Case, The Funny Times, The Haven. Twitter: @blade_funner

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