Whales

I’m glad I’m not a whale. This is because, unlike other whales, who’ve got mounds of unsightly blubber all over their bodies, I’d undoubtedly be a trim, ultra-fit he-whale, of the sort who appears on the front cover of “Whales’ Health” and advertises whatever the whale equivalent of Blue Kouros is. As a result, I wouldn’t be able to dive much deeper than about 100 feet, otherwise, without those protective layers of fat, I’d freeze. Thus, swimming permanently near the surface, I’d be left vulnerable to harpoon attack and subsequent transformation into Japanese hamburgers.

The only option left to me in order to survive, I suppose, would be to devolve back into some sort of land-based creature. But, having sprouted arms, legs, and all the other necessaries, I’d then have to launch my 60 foot plus body on to the shore in search of sustenance. I’m sure humanity wouldn’t react very well, especially as I’m a carnivore, and so would most likely want to eat their children. Consequently, once the governments of the world had launched all their armed forces against me, I’d probably be just as dead as I would have been had I simply remained a hapless sushi ingredient.

That said, would I be missing much? Not really. It can’t be fun having to shag someone who, perforce, is usually the whale equivalent of Andrea Dworkin. Not that you can see her at depths below 300 feet or so, as there’s little or no illumination. But the probability is high, nonetheless. I imagine this is why whales aren’t monogamous and apparently have so many sex partners. The scatter-gun approach to shagging means that, statistically, at least, there’s a small possibility that you’ll be poking a cetacean Claudia Schiffer. (Or you can just fantasize and imagine you are.)

Great sex is out, though. A whale can only stay under water for about two hours, maximum, so if you indulge in lengthy foreplay and then an “all nighter”, you both drown. This therefore means that the survival of the species is dependent upon nerdy, premature ejaculator, trainspotter-type whales, whose idea of highly erotic “sex talk” is to recite the registration numbers of all the Liberian oil tankers currently doing the transatlantic run.

To be quite frank, given that, I’d actually prefer to be fucking extinct.