The past several weeks have seen three shark attacks in a two-mile-square area of coastal North Carolina. It’s your civic duty to panic over this. At Carsonmania, we know a bandwagon when we see one, so here’s our list of helpful hints.
To avoid shark attack:
Move to New Mexico.
For extra safety, stay away from wave pools – especially if there’s chum in the water and a grizzled sailor singing “Show Me the Way To Go Home.”
Be aware of land sharks. Don’t open your front door to someone you don’t know, especially if he announces: “Candygram!”
If you insist on swimming in the ocean, go with a buddy who is fatter and slower than you are.
Swimming in a group is another good precaution. A group of, say, 1 million should do it – like the Hindu pilgrims in the Ganges.
Keep an eye on the swimming patterns of other fish. If they start frantically leaping 20 feet into the air, you should too.
Sharks are naturally drawn to the splashes of a dog paddling in the water. Teach your dog to do the breast stroke or the Australian crawl.
Uneven skin colors may fool sharks into thinking you’re a multi-colored fish, so don’t swim if you’ve got a farmer tan.
The Florida Museum of Natural History advises: “Don’t go into waters containing sewage.” We second that emotion.
Animal Planet’s reality show “The Last Alaskans” follows survivalists who return to their remote wilderness cabins each year just as winter is coming (uh-huh).
Husband puts on his hunting gear, prepares to leave cabin. “Gotta bag us a moose, honey. We need that protein and fat to make it through the winter.”
Wife: “OK, dear. Good luck.”
Wife to second camera unit after husband leaves: “I’ve told him a million times, ‘Let’s just buy a steer from the butcher in Fairbanks and have it airlifted out here,’ but nooooo.”
Husband tiptoes across frozen marshland, whispers to field camera crew: “Any little twig snapping can spook a wild animal.” Husband pauses, checks his rifle. “If I don’t take down a moose this season, my family will starve.”
Wife uses her steam-powered iPhone to call Safeway in Fairbanks. “Hello, meat department? How much would you charge us for a steer carcass?...That’s all?”
Husband sniffs the air. “There’s definitely moose around here. They left about five minutes ago. You don’t stalk moose for thirty years without learning something. Let’s keep walking. You’re not tired from lugging around that camera, are you?”
Wife prepares supper of fried tree roots with dirt gravy.
Husband returns to cabin, moose-less. “Sorry, honey. It just wasn’t my day. Maybe tomorrow.” Husband heads straight to bed.
As husband snores, wife cranks up kerosene-powered cassette player, places it next to his ear, and sets the tape on continuous loop: “Buy a steer. Buy a steer. Buy a steer. Buy a steer.”
I hope you weren't expecting anything profound.
If I ever need to plead insanity, this blog will provide valuable evidence.
Copyright (c) 2022 by Leah Carson, d/b/a Excellent Words, LLC