I have had an unfortunately extensive experience with Whales.
Weirdly, for 4 years, I worked in a Wyland Gallery. Know who Wyland is? No? That’s because he’s a douchetastic crust hole. For example: that picture you just clicked on? It’s by his buddy, Jim Warren (another douche nozzle, but considerably less so). Jim Warren and Wyland (yes, that’s his whole name, like Madonna, except, again, it’s a total fucktard we’re talking about. His real name is “Bob”, btw) would come into the gallery every once in a while, high as shit (no, they never offered to share, selfish pricks) and point out all their “inside jokes” in the paintings. Now look closely again at that piece-of-shit picture — Jim Warren etched a giant fucking boner in Wyland’s jeans. Just for kicks.
See what I mean about being a douchtastic crust hole?
Anyway, the guy’s gimmick was whales, namely saving them … by painting them. As life-sized as possible. He did “whaling walls” (Yeah, I know… Jews everywhere are so pleased this idiot is tooling around the planet), which were buildings crusted with his shitty whale art. How did this help save the poor mammal beasties? I don’t really know. Maybe it got people to focus so hard on craptacular art that they failed to pursue a career in whaling…?
Perhaps because of this lengthy and freakish employment opportunity, I have always, always, always refused to read Moby Dick. I fucking hate Herman Melville, who had his head blitheringly far up his own ass, and who tragically created some execrable, unreadable literature which usually only doddering old male professors will foist on the young. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it — Moby Dick in 6 seconds: the whale is god, we don’t always get along god, harpoons are pointy, and the coffin is symbolic and ironic. Oh, and ”Call me Ishmael.” That’s really all you need to know. Hey, Sorcia, want to read some Melville, maybe Bartleby the Scrivner? I’d prefer not to, asshole.
As luck would have it, I’m supposed to be tutoring Moby Cocksucker this summer, but again, I’d prefer not to. So I’ve been printing out the sparknotes version and telling the kids my theory on how much Melville sucks balls in hell. Now they all just think I’m unbalanced and furious all the time. Meanwhile, the professor can’t believe how much vitriol these kids are spewing in class.
I called my mother last night to complain about this hateful position, and she told me that when she read Moby Dick for a master’s class at Stetson, on the day of the exam for the literary atrocity, she stopped by Burger King for lunch on the way and ordered a (wait for it…) “Whaler” sandwich. I know. She amazes me, too.
Now that’s irony.
Further irony: That Wyland gallery where I earned iron ducats at a thankless job is now a sushi restaurant. I wouldn’t even lie about it.
Save the Whales? Fuck, no. Let’s eat the fuckers!
(I call dibs on the big white bastard named Moby. I got a packet of tartar sauce with his name on it.)