Dolphin Literature - Let's Just Say - Not Gonna Make it in the New Yorker...

Dolphin writers have long been known for their gross ineptitude. Lack of tact, horrible metaphors and let us not even get started on grammatical errors. The slippery bastards think they're so smart and so clever in their "plot twists" and "simile" and "paragraphs". But in all actuality, they basically write akin to a hackneyed Hemingway. First person narrative with simplistic sentence structure focusing on the general ennui of life. Ohhh! I've never ever heard of anyone else write like that. So innovative! So creative! I'm pretty sure that Dave Eggers is thus actually a dolphin. He's so risque! He admits to not using a condom during sex and puts pictures of staplers on random pages. How tongue in cheek! Huzzah for you, my good man, er, dolphin. "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Drowning in My Own Vomit". There, see how I fixed that for you?

Frankly, the dolphin literary world would be better served were they to avoid the classics like Dickens and Bronte, continue studying the canon of American authors like Fitzgerald and Rand but in all actuality focus upon the greatest writer of our generation. The author of such seminal lines as:

"Gozer the Traveler. He will come in one of the pre-chosen forms. During the rectification of the Vuldrini, the traveler came as a large and moving Torg! Then, during the third reconciliation of the last of the McKetrick supplicants, they chose a new form for him: that of a giant Slor! Many Shuvs and Zuuls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of the Slor that day, I can tell you!"

AND

"You have been a participant in the biggest interdimensional cross rip since the Tunguska blast of 1909!"

That's right. Dan Aykroyd is the most important writer of all time. Can you write like that, dolphins? I think not. Can you write, Dave Eggers? I think not.

Touche! Victoire! I win! I win!

Happy Days Are Here Again

My younger brother is getting married at the end of the month and his bachelor party is this upcoming weekend. This is going to be a hullabaloo, a blow out, a shindig, a whiz-banger, a Twenty Three Skidoo and all other F. Scott Fitzgerald synonyms for a party. For those of you who don't know me, I likey the boozey. A lot. I'm drinking right now, in fact. Stage I of the bachelor party is going to be the highlight of the festivities, me thinks. We are going to combine my two passions into one compact and delightful package otherwise known as deep sea fishing. Hold on, hold on... let me get this straight. We get on a boat loaded full of beer and other spirits and take to the high seas like adventurers of yore to kill dolphins? Booze and Dolphin Murder, together? This may be my finest hour. Second finest, actually. The first was when I piloted Spitfires during the Battle of Britain. Shot down 31 Kraut Messerschmidt BF-109's, most likely piloted by dolphins. But as the second finest hour, I think this will suffice. I'm going to get hammered and drop dynamite into the ocean. When the sensitive inner ear of the dolphin is thus confused, they'll surface and I'll hit the fuckers with a two by four with a couple sixteen penny nails driven through the appropriate end. Then, hauling my quarry ashore, I shall pose for triumphant photos away from the prying eyes of the Fish and Game Commission or the EPA or the Rotary Club. Then I'll go to an illegal taxidermist, get those bastards stuffed and then go to a rifle range and use the dessicated corpses for target practice for future dolphin executions. What a glorious time it is to be alive knowing that the Bush Administration hates nature more than fiscal responsibility or American Soldiers (actually, that might be wrong - pretty sure Bush hates American Soldiers more than any other entity on earth) thus allowing me the carte blanche to kill as many as I can carry, and since I'm so strong, I can carry one. But hell, we're not walking the Appalachian Trail - this isn't carry-in carry-out. I'll just kill 'em and leave 'em. Sorta how I treat women. Listen babe, I can't be tied down. Now where'd I park my hog?

{Walks around the corner, sobs silently, gets on pink Vespa, rides to independent book shop}