Friday, March 5, 2010

Not Cool Guys

I know I'm on a theme right now—I'm working through it. But come on! I can't just let this one slide. "Diver Wrestles Frisbee Off Shark." Why in the name of Poseidon would you do that? The story says two divers were off the coast of Florida and saw this shark resting on the bottom—with a Frisbee around its neck. So what do they do? They get all Mutual of Omaha and decide to lend the shark a hand (unfortunately the shark was too lethargic to actually bite the divers hand off, but it wanted to badly I know it).


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So much is wrong with this picture I don't know where to begin. First off, if you see a shark with a Frisbee around its neck at the bottom of the ocean and you automatically think "You poor thing," you're delusional. Think of the poor hippee that got eaten by the shark first. Poor hippee probably went real long at an ultimate Frisbee match on the beach (totally harshed his day I'm sure). That's the real tragedy here.

Second, the diver gave up the tactical advantage by helping this depth charge of teeth and malice. And if Rambo has taught us anything it's never give up a tactical advantage. Taking the Frisbee off the shark was like handing a very angry John Rambo (is there any other kind?) a fully-loaded M-60 machine gun and walking him into a room full of radio equipment. That situation can only end in one way and there's no calling for help after that episode of bullet fueled rage. (Only the bullets are teeth, and the radios are the soft parts of flesh on the back of your thigh.)

(What's next? Are we going to give the shark the headband of his dead girlfriend and a bow an arrow with explosive tipped arrows?)

The good news for the human race? We've learned that Frisbees slow sharks down. And apparently sharks love to put their heads through them. So next time I'm at La Jolla beach, you better believe I'll be tossing huge amounts of Frisbees into the water (you're welcome public). Don't call me a hero, I'm not a hero. I'm your worst nightmare shark. I know your weakness. And in the words of John I-look-totally-badass-with-my-shirt-off Rambo—I'm coming for you.

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