A Seabird's New Year's Resolution

Above is Vincenzo delBirdio, the prominent Laguna Beach real estate mogul well known in the inner circle circle for his cutthroat business deals and take-no-prisoner's approach to beach front land development. 

Below is Mr. delBirdio's New Year's Resolution. 

Dear 2017,

I look out from my patio (which is, by itself, 500 square feet) and I see an endless ocean.  I walk through my condominium (one of seven properties to my delBirdio name) to my other patio (which is a mere 300 square feet). From it, I see my empire. I see the many houses I've built and sold. I think of all of my profits. Millions of dollars for hundreds of thousands of square feet.

Then I turn and look inside my own "home."  I see emptiness. I see marble floors. Shiny. I see my very impressive collection of mirrors, mirrors I am afraid to look into and ask "Whose a pretty bird?."  I see my Subzero fridge stocked with worms and caviar. Full, but empty. 

Most of all, I see no one else. Even my assistant has the holiday week off to spend with her family.  I have nothing but space.  I have nothing but emptiness.  Many square feet of personal defeat.

But this shall be no more! In the coming year, I shall work less. It won't always be about the sale. It will be about filling my life with more than closings and yet another four figure dangly bell.

I hope to be able to look in a mirror and see perhaps a wife standing beside me. Maybe one of my many empty rooms can be a nursery?

2017, I entweet you to be a better year. For if such is true, I will be a better bird. I will be a pretty bird with a pretty life, who won't be afraid to look into my many mirrors anymore. 

-V. delBirdio 

A Grasshopper Turns Down an Opportunity to be Anthologized in Order to Take His Material on a Spoken-Word Tour

Above is Garrison, the grasshopper. This photo was taken just a moment before he got the phone call from his agent that his poem was accepted to be published in the latest edition of Bugs and Ballads. Turning the offer down was the hardest decision in Garrison’s life.

Below is Garrison's letter:

Dear Editors,

Thank you for your kind offer to publish my poem about being trapped in a vase “Glass is Greener” in your latest edition. I must, however, decline as I have decided to take my material in a wholly different direction.

Instead of desiring to witness my words on the printed page, I feel that my new calling in this life is to hop around the world and impart my experiences as a slam poet.  I hope that I can found an entirely new art form and way for my kind to express myself through the use of stridulation as well as through words.  This new means of expression will be called “hop poetry” and I hope one day it will become a wildly-embraced phenomenon.

Thank you for providing me with the external validation I needed to make this decision with confidence.

Yours,

Garrison

A Cat Protests Apple's New Non-Cat-Named OS

The above is a Maine Coon cat named Enoch who thinks the new OS should have been named Apple BigassKitty.

The below is his letter to the Mac powers that be.

Dear Jony Ive,

After over ten years of naming Apple operating systems after my feline brethren, you chose to negate that sacred bond by naming the new OS after something that sounds like a shitty dive bar and reminds us all of Mel Gibson's finer days. How dare you.

As such, I've decided to learn Linux, and will be trading my iPhone in for a Samsung. This is what it's come to.  Also, watch out; I pooped in your shoes.

Sincerely,

Enoch

A Crab Contemplates Autocannibalism

Above is Corson, who may not survive this post.

Below is his unseemly confession.

Dear Diary,

Once again an aquarium visitor in a bright red shirt reminded me of an inviting pool of cocktail sauce. I want to jump in, dipping my entire body and soul in the condiment. Then, I dream of gnawing away at my extremities like I'm the only course of my last meal.

Can you see me, diary? Look at those legs! Why must I have such masochistic desires and such beautiful, succulent stems? Why must my defining feature torture the rest of my very person?

It is probably no use to tell you about this, diary. What can you do? Frankly, what can I do? Nothing. Nothing is what I'm left with...as surely my need for self-preservation will prevent me from sucking the sweet salty meat from my own flesh and dying a horrible death in front of my mates.

And on the matter of my fellow crabs, how I wish I could tell my tankmates of my unsavory lusts. Maybe they feel the same way about their own bodies? Maybe they dream about being steamed and fed to themselves.  Is it weird to think that I could be very good friends with the crustacean version of Hannibal Lecter?

I guess I should just be content to be alive, even though it means that I'll never truly be fulfilled always hungry.

-Corson the Crab

A Piranha's Admission of Illiteracy

The above is Perry the Piranha, who is still living in the '90s as defined by daytime Disney programming.

Below is Perry's frank and hopeful letter.

Dear Friends,

I am dictating this letter to Gordon, my best mate, a sea anemone who also happens to be a grade A typist. I cannot write this note myself as I am - as hard as it is to admit - unable to read.

You see, I dropped out of grade school at a tender young age in order to chase my Hollywood dreams. Time passed. I got older. My scales grew dryer.  I lost my virginity to a famous actor. I dabbled in Scientology.  I played a small role in the '90s Disney series Ocean Girl.  I thought I was happy. I was merely filling a void. So many bubbles and so little learned. Now that I'm back in the aquarium, my thirst for knowledge has only increased with each fish flake filled day.

I've decided to take Reading classes at the learning annex in the corner of the tank by the green rocks and water filter. Gordon has offered to lead the classes. At the end of the semester, I plan to pen my own Ocean Girl reboot script and finally change the world forever.

Yours,

Perry the Piranha.

Sultry Confessions of a Pink Fish

The above is a photo of Lenore, a fish who accidentally cheated on her  jellyfish boyfriend at a wild high school reunion party.

Below is her apology letter. 

Dear Gil,

How to begin... First of all I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I hope you won't immediately turn your gooey back on me after you read what I've written.

I went to my high school reunion party last Friday and had way too much fermented kelp.  Way too much.  You know I'm a lightweight...

Well, remember Sam, the foreign exchange Siamese Fighting Fish from high school. I know you got kicked out of school senior year... Anyway,  he was there.  You remember he was my date to prom, wayyyy before we met? Well, things got a bit out of control.  Sam was visiting just for the weekend and...  We got to talking.... We got to reminiscing...  Then we made out inside the plastic sunken ship.  A jerkface minnow snapped a picture of us, so you might see that on FishBook, just FYI... 

Oh, Gil, I just had to tell you! Please don't hurt Sam! Please don't break up with me! 

Let's get married! 

Yours forever,

Lenore

Seymour Seagull's Third Suicide Note

The above is a picture of Seymour, taken an hour before this note was written.

Below is Seymour Seagull's last (?) suicide note. 

Dear World, You Jerk, 

I exist! Damnit. I think! Damnit! I’m a feathered fool captive in a Descartes quote. Oh, how I am so pretentious. I hate every pretentious feather on my body sometimes. Especially now. 

To recap: I’ve tried to leave this earth twice. The world won’t spit me out. It just keeps chewing and chewing like some sadistic cow.  Like a bastard bovine. And I’m its jinxed cud. 

But I have a plan! I am going to jump.  I’m going to dive. I’m going to swim until I reach the bottom of the ocean. And then I’m going to plant my webbed feet there on the floor.  I’m going to cling to whatever fish, oyster, or ball of kelp comes along.  The water, that shall be my exit. Cool cleansing water for this feverish dirty bird. 

~Seymour

Editor’s Note: Seymour survived. (Again).  An overzealous Good-Samaratin-type dolphin saved his life.