Rehabilitating Sharks.

Harking back to times of yore, to those half-remembered days (of last week) before traipsing back to Sydney, to The East as they call it over here, as if everything on the other side of the fucking Nullarbor is the same, an unchanging sweep of ground, broken only by the occasional flood and a few stands of banana trees, populated by homogenous ‘others’, unfathomable and ignorant of the unrivalled magnificence of Westraya.

I may be yet to fully embrace the latent Westralian that lies dormant in us all – yes, even in you – but I am gradually coming round. I am beginning, a bit, to agree with Westralians everywhere that this really is the promised land. Anywhere that not only produces, but also elects to office, such a marvellous specimen of humanity, such a pinnacle of political integrity as Colin Barnett , has got my vote.

Who can argue with a man (and the adulate population clamouring for their share of his mining dollar handouts) who refuses – after a spate of fatal shark attacks – to spend a few of those dirty mining dollars on putting shark nets around the beaches, claiming they offer little more than a false sense of security. Funny, I was always under the impression that the lack of sharks in Sydney’s beaches, and the nets that surround said beaches, might have had something to do with each other. Or maybe I’m just lucky. Maybe it’s because I don’t go swimming in shark infested waters in a black wet suit, which makes me look so much less like a fucking seal. Honestly, what’s wrong with fluorescent-fucking-orange?

Nets? Bright Colours? No, better to organise helicopters and snipers and hunt the bloody sharks down. Fuck yeah, get some. Let’s go out and cull an endangered species. Don’t worry, trend setters, any guilt you might feel at hastening the extinction of yet another of the planet’s dwindling array of marine species will be well and truly vindicated by the knowledge that the fucking sharks had it coming. Who the fuck do they think they are? Who gives a shit that they’ve been in this same patch of ocean, virtually unchanged, for the last 420 million years, we’re in charge now. They should have bloody well known better. Well, they’ll get it now won’t they? Or at least, they might, if any of them survive. But faced with the hardened frontier spirit of the West, what’s the chance of that? Fuck. All.

So soon, in the new found safety of our oceans, we can have a state-wide celebration. Like the collective joy experienced by the US upon the death of Osama Bin Laden, there will be a riot of weeping in the streets, tears of joy running down our cheeks, hordes of stubbie-wielding surf lovers racing for the waves, freshly odontectomised shark-tooth necklaces nestled between their clavicles.

Post-celebration, baptised in the diluted blood of our enemies, fear of a toothy death averted, we can all comfortably lie around and treat the ocean like our fucking living room, lying in the shallows and staring mindlessly at the parade of tanned, beautiful people passing on the sand – no fatties here trend setters, what with Westralia having the highest sporting participation in the country and all. I can’t help but wonder if vengeance, shark hunting, and extinction count as sports.

Right now, anyway, back to my harking. Before I went back to Sydney, and amongst the vestiges of my once-functional social life, put a dent in my short term memory – which might have something to do with how long it is taking me to make my pointless – I said something about intolerance, about not suffering fools lightly. It’s a strangely dichotomous existence, feeling generally like a warm-hearted, compassionate person, and at the same time, having absolutely no time for the rampant idiocy plaguing this virus we like to call humanity.

According to a good friend of mine, who is a genius – No really, he’s a genius, and a lovely man to boot – this conflict is a hallmark of having a natural predilection for liberalism – apparently (and the more you think about it, the apparent it becomes) people who are unable to hold two (or more) conflicting ideas in their puny little brains at the same time tend toward conservatism, and vice versa. So next time you’re watching the a Tory, or a Republican, or a member of the Coalition speak, and you think “this guy’s a fucking moron”, you’ll be right.

So, I am clearly a natural liberal – note the implied intelligence here people. Thank you. I do admit though, for all my liberalism, I seem to have some alarming, though thankfully only occasional, fascist tendencies. It should come as no surprise then, that I have a really hard time with how fucking intolerant I can get. I don’t want to be a judgemental bastard, I don’t, but really, anyone who calls for the shooting of the shark, rather than cautioning the populace against swimming in the shark’s backyard, is a fucking dickhead.

Have a little compassion for fuck’s sake, a little understanding for the shark’s plight. It was only doing what was natural, the poor bugger, it’s not the shark’s fault, leave him alone.

Of course, sometimes, even with plenty of warning, and a bright orange wetsuit, some poor fucker is still going to get eaten. But you don’t go out culling paedophile’s because one diddles your kids, even though you’ve warned them away from him.

Naturally, and unlike a shark, you can’t just leave the kiddie-fondler alone either, even though he is only behaving according to his instincts. So, lock him away where he can’t get at the little ones… put him behind a fucking shark net.


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on November 2nd, 2011.

One Response to “Rehabilitating Sharks.”

  1. Fucking sharks.

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