I don't care.
Dolphins. Are. Gang. Rapists.
If you're as dedicated to this blog as Jane du Toit, or you've been to the beach with me within the last 6 months, you will already know this. If not, here's what you should read to catch up. There's really no reason for me to bring this up again, except that I was watching TV today (day off! day off! day off!) and caught a conversation between two teenage girls about how much better dolphins are than sharks. Needless to say, this disturbed me no end. Dolphins are better than sharks? Is that what they're teaching in schools these days? Here's what I think:
Yeah, sharks are assholes. Sure. They're ugly, they eat people, they've got creepy eyes, and it's almost impossible to create a realistic-looking robot version of them. But they KNOW all this. They KNOW that they're douche bags, and they love it. Sharks are like the animal version of George Clooney.
Dolphins on the other hand...dolphins are the kind of animals you spend 19+ years loving, adoring, wanting to ride, and avoiding most brands of canned tuna for, only to find out that they rape each other. In gangs. And that there was once a dolphin in New Zealand who stalked all the popular beaches and ATTACKED people. So uncool. At least sharks aren't pretending to be anything other than what they are/movies like Jaws and Deep Blue Sea portray them as. If there were any justice in the world, I'd have enough money to be out there making a film about rapist dolphins right now. As it is, I don't - but I do have this blog.
On a completely different note, you know what I was thinking about the other day? Santa Claus and The Easter Bunny, and the fact that I can't for the life of me remember when I realised they weren't real. Not saying I'm the original Elephant Child herself or anything, but for the most part, my memory is pretty flippin' crazy. I can remember a conversation I had with my Mum at age three, the exact socks I wore on my first day of school, what day of the week it was when I got my braces off...but I don't know when I stopped believing in Santa?
On the plus side, neither does Catherine. You know what else we realised? That neither of us can remember not knowing (close your eyes, Mum, things are about to get awkward) about sex. Or swear words. I'm convinced this was mainly the fault of our neighbours daughter, Kate. She may have been only one year older than Catherine, but she was also insane. Literally. Like, she-snuck-into-our-yard-one-night-and-tried-to-steal-our-dog insane.
I love my childhood.