Here is a desperate shark, beached off the waters of the Gulf Coast. He is nonplussed by the fact that no matter how many times he fin hops out onto the sand, the gold digging humans just pretend to look the other way. Not one sardine for his humiliating dance. No flaky tuna. Not even a saucy anchovy scraped off a pizza pie. Sometimes he goes back to sea at night wondering if his failure is in the delivery. Should he wear clown make-up? A flower hat? Hire a sea anemone sidekick with a nihilistic sense of humor? What is the scam, he wonders while swimming to the depths, that will keep his head just below water? “There is always tomorrow,” his wife assures him. “Hang out here with me and the other sharks by the spa pipe sticking out of the sea floor. There’s a black ooze that Thelma swears by. It will smooth out your sand paper skin. You should stop painting. The humans want nothing to do with the perspective of an expressive shark”.
Tomorrow is always a new day. He will give up the song and dance eventually. The black ooze is so comforting. And anyway, all that was ever asked of him was to be a shark, scent fear and blood, and participate in specie groupthink. No different from human really.
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