I'm laying in bed, trying desperately to get to sleep, and the phrase "splash zone" pops into my brain. Probably because a few weeks ago I used the phrase in a joke after hearing one of my wife's friends relate a personal anecdote of a gynecological nature. Yeah, yuck is right. It's a funny joke, though.
So anyway, I'm stuck on "splash zone", only in the Sea World sense. You know, the area around the killer whale cage where you are sure to get wet when he throws his gargantuan body into the atmosphere and empties half his whale-piss, fish-gut, and who-knows-what-else filled pool onto your lap. You remember that scene, right?
My stream-of-consciousness thoughts now drift to the folks that do silly things like swim with these beasts, ride their backs under water and then real fun things like kiss them and rub the animal's tongue.
Yeah, rub his tongue.
Next thought?
Won't it be nice that the last thing your hand feels, after it becomes a snot-rocket billowing out of Fluffy's blowhole cuz your tongue massage made him sneeze... anyway it'll be nice that the last thing it feels is the tongue of a KILLER FREAKING WHALE!?!?
There are animals without the adjective "killer" in their names that I avoid, much less am I willing to put one of my meatcicles into their mouths. Think the name KILLER whale is a hint?
Oh, and then I think of this: some whiny argument about "that never happens" or "you've got more chance getting hurt working on your car"...
Maybe it hasn't ever happened, I don't know, and I'm too tired to try to find out. But my counter-argument is this: it only takes once. Do whale-trainers' hands taste like chicken?
Oh, and as for my car biting off my hand? Perhaps, but I need my car. So if I'm working under the hood (stop laughing, Jill, it's just hypothetical) it'll be to work on something that I need. There's no "need" to put your hands in a whale's mouth. I mean, so you massage his tongue... does that mean you get to ride him to work? Can the whole family jump on his back for a little drive in the country?
And I end this fun with the visual of me, posed on Sparky the Killer Whale's back, cruising through the gate on post, showing my ID to the gate guard who just pissed his pants, while I gleefully giggle to the radio tuned to the latest of Dennis Miller's playful euphemisms about this politician or that Hollywood hack...
No, I'm not drinking coffee. First, I don't drink coffee and, second, if I did drink coffee, I wouldn't drink it on a whale's back. Sheesh, what kind of asshole do you think I am?
Wait... is he Scotchguarded?
Military
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