whale tale

whale tale

We don’t know either, but we like it. Happy Thanksgiving.

Infected by the loony elements in our so called education system, my children are now determined to save whales. Curiously, the children smirk when I suggest they should be saving for my retirement, rather than worrying about bloated mammals. Typical of do-gooders, the mob behind this propaganda know absolutely nothing about whales. I, on the other hand, have been sinking in yachts offshore for nearly thirty years and know whales to be the vindictive, fish murdering, boat wrecking, menace to navigation, that Melville prophesied.

You can’t go half an hour off Sydney these days without coming across a whale that’s stuffed full of cute little baby krill, all swallowed alive. Even if you don’t spy the tell tale mist from their belching blowholes, you can tell when whales are about because, to put it bluntly, they smell. If you spent just a day, doing Japanese style research on savoury bits of orphaned krill, you’d doubtless have a bit of a waft about you, whales, having gorged on the poor innocent creatures for years, positively reek.

Did you see any whales when you were out sailing? Asks your typical whale cuddler. It’s not the ones you see that worry you, it’s the big, angry ones, cluttering up the shipping lanes, bent on ambush, that cause trouble. Whale watching is only a sensible past time when the things are trying to run you down. Certainly whales should be made to wear lights after sunset, perhaps we could get them to glow if we fed them radioactive waste.

Sydney stops every time a whale arrives in the harbour. The reason the whales are in the harbour is because my soft-hearted brother keeps feeding them. We’ll be bobbing up and down, five rum bottles south of Lord Howe Island, when he’ll start throwing little chunks of carrot off the back of the boat and before you know it, some great lump of blubber is following behind nibbling at the rudder.

When we were younger, my brother befriended a young stray whale and it followed him home. Dad didn’t want to keep him of course, always scratching to come in or get out, jumping on the furniture and then there were the vet bills, inoculations, worming and the costs of getting him spayed. After he’d been spayed, my brother finally settled down, but the whale remained a handful. It was always getting off its chain, following us to school, eating the neighbours and tipping over garbage trucks. If a goldfish went missing from any bowl in the district our whale would get the blame.

What exactly do these people want to save the whales for? They are extremely difficult to milk and if you think cows leave fair sized calling cards, can you imagine what a humpback pumps back, when it’s eaten a bad prawn. We are talking serious environmental impact. Whales are also notoriously dishonest, I once lent my brother’s whale six quid and two weeks later it tried to pay me back with an unwell octopus.

For those who don’t believe in mincing parrots in wind turbines, perhaps they may consider burning whale blubber for light. Global warming will soon bring the waterfront to areas of Sydney where the mincing parrots of the popular media are believed. With status comes responsibility and I’m sure these people will soon agree, that we should return to Kyoto and eat as many whales as possible, or at least learn how to trap them. Oh and if anyone sees a 35 tonne humpback whale with a grey patch above the left eye, wandering the streets of Sydney, tell him I still want my sick squid.

Sean J Kelly