Bendy Straws, 1 - Dolphins, 0

An environmentally hippie-dippie co-worker told me that whenever she walks along a beach, she picks up transparent plastic garbage under the auspices of saving the fucking dolphins because it does something bad to them that I would love to imagine. With that in mind, I'm taking the LIRR to Long Beach with a back pack full of Glad Brand Sandwich Bags, those McDonald's two-beverage holder bags and 3,000 bendy straws. The reasoning? Straws in particular are supposed to (according to the interwebs, which never lies) get lodged in the dolphin blowhole thus suffocating them. You ever see that happen with gills? Hells no, bitch. Because fish got it made. They're supposed to be underwater because, THEY CAN BREATH UNDERWATER. Idiotic dolphins due to their evolutionary backtracking have to surface to breath our precious O2 and in the process often get things stuck in their air slot. Just think of this for your next SAT:

Dolphin : Bendy Straw :: Richard Gere : ?

So You Want to Date a Dolphin?

If you answered yes to that question, I have a truck for you to get in the back of. Don't worry where it's going, we're going for a ride! Come on, come on boy! Wanna go for a ride? Yes you do! Yes you do! {the truck goes to Malmedy - Google it}.

But let's say, hypothetically speaking as a mental exercise that you do want to actually date a dolphin. What a social minefield you have entered, my friend.

Step 1. You see the dolphin of your dreams.

You know the feeling. You're at a party, talking to someone about who went to Columbia University about how many drugs they did because "like, man, New York was my campus and I'd go clubbing all the time as a freshman" and all you're thinking of is a slow death. Then that girl, or in this case, dolphin comes in the party and all of a sudden it's like Wayne's World and "Dream Weaver" is playing and her hair, er dorsal fin is swaying in soft focus. How do you talk to her? How to make that connection...

Step 2. Making contact

Click click pop buzzzz eeee eeee eeee eeee eeee click click twittttterrrr

Step 3. The first date

You pick a fancy (but not too fancy, because that's pretentious) restaurant slash aquarium to take her out to. Since girls always want what they can't have, hold the fish just a liiitttttllee bit higher than they can jump. She'll be wrapped around your finger.

Step 4. The first kiss

Seriously, if you're contemplating that, you're so so so gross. I just puked. Not even in my mouth a little bit. I mean all over the keyboard.

Step 5. Going the distance

Two words: blow hole

Step 6. She leaves you for another man/dolphin/wildebeast

So you know in movies where the "hero" is dumped by the girl of his dreams for another superficially cooler guy and you know that she'll be back by the end of the film? Well that's not how it works in real life. The hero inevitably says to the cooler guy who stole his girl "break her heart and I'll kill you" or "treat her poorly and I'll rip your head off" to show that he's the one who really cares. NOT REAL LIFE. In real life, this girl was not Stolen, she consciously ran off to another guy. In which case the "hero" (ie, LOSER) should instead say: "Treat Her Poorly" or "Break Her Heart" because frankly, this guy is doing you a favor by crushing her soul when she didn't even give you the opportunity to do so.

Step 7. Recovery and Moving On

Reminds me of an old baseball joke - What was Mickey Mantle's favorite inning? The bottom of the fifth. That's right - Recovery equals drinking heavily. So much so that should an Eastern European ask for directions to a club and you give it to him and then he steals your cellphone, you're too drunk to chase after him. And you're wearing flip-flops. In the rain. And you had just fallen face first into a bar window thus are bleeding from the head. This happened to a guy I once knew. What a loser.

Step 8. A new beginning.

STOP DATING WHORES OR DOLPHINS...

The.... End (???)

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}