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. 

Eelish Hopes of Ballet and a First Kiss

The above is Eelene's show-stopping final number from her re-imagining of Le Corsaire. (She is the Moray Eel exiting stage left.) 

Below is a diary entry, written by a most hopeful saltwater teenager, just hours before this performance.   

Dear Diary, 

I've done it. I've revolutionized and waterproofed modern ballet! 

The premiere of my reinterpreted ballet, Le Corsaire, is tonight and it's going to be just aces! 

I just finished fashioning my tutu out of seaweed; it is actually quite fetching! The green perfectly matches my skin!  I'm nearly ready to take center stage. My, I'm so jittery...

Oh, it's all coming together, diary. All those nights practicing my twirls and deep emotionless stares are going to pay off! 

Can you picture it, diary?  The aquarium will never have seen such a show. All the other fish promised to swim their bests and hit their marks, even Freddy Feederfish  My choreography is, if I say so myself, brilliant.  Who said you had to have feet to pirouette?  Who needs toes to couru?  Not I!  Swim-two-three-four-splash-six-swim-sink-swim.  

All right, I'm off to do my makeup.  I'll be the prettiest Moray Eel the world has ever seen!  Maybe after the ballet, after everyone has seen how beautiful and graceful and pretty I am, I'll finally get my first kiss. Maybe Freddy will finally notice me! 

Wish me luck, diary! 

~Eelene  

A Note Left By A Gang of Artistic Dust-Mites Who've Been Living Inside Your Computer

The above is the first artwork known to have been produced by The League of Artistic Dust-Mites.

Below is their manifesto calling for the end of technology and the resurgence of "L'art pour l'art."

Dear Computer User/Landlord/Sheep:

Let us introduce ourselves! We are a bohemian troupe of highly evolved and singularly creative dust-mites.  We are visual and performance artists hellbent on universal recognition and respect in the human art community.  For months now your Mac Pro tower has been both our cozy home and our studio.  Do you like what we've done with the place?  It's a mix media artwork comprised of hard drive, magnets, white-out, desire, and oil paint.  It's avant-garde.

As dust-mites, we've had a unique perspective to observe you and your kind acting as slaves to these powerful, humming boxes.  Our art installation, "Dust-Mite, Lust-Night, Computer Prison Edenville," will change not only the way the world views performance art -- but also change how civilization understands technology -- but even moreover, change how man regards dust-mite. Change! Change! Change!

We dust-mites we be marginalized no more! This is our artistic manifesto!  We are taking over. Dust-mite by dust-mite. Computer by computer...

Behold the onset of the bohemian dust-mite revolution!

Respectfully,

The League of Artistic Dust-Mites

Letter from a Fraudulent Frog-Prince

The above is a homo-sapien-obsessed and -- dare I mention -- sexually promiscuous tree frog.  Just look how he shoves his junk against the glass like that.  For shame.

The below is this tree frog's attempt to exploit popular fairytales as a means to get sweet lovin' from as many human ladies as possible.



Dear Sexy Women of the World,

It is I, Prince Luigi Francisco Leroy McCallahan, IV.  I hail from the rich, although obscure (you've probably never heard of it), principality of Notafrogtopia.

Would you believe it, the thing they warn you about in the storybooks happened to me! I got cursed by an evil, ugly-ass witch.  I was once the handsome, rich, studly heir to my country's throne. Then I got caught in some mystical crossfire and now I've been turned into a beast: a pint-sized warty green tree frog. Alas, alack.

I beg you, I beseech you, oh fine ladies of the world.  Kiss me!  Make me a prince again.  And then I will take you to my kingdom---what did I say it's name was---oh yeah---Notafrogtopia and you will be my queen.

So just come on over, lean down, and plant a wet one on my quivering froggy lips.

Your kingdom awaits!

Sincerely,
Frog  Prince Luigi Francisco Leroy McCallahan, IV

Sea Bass Petition For Name Change

Above is a photo of a sea bass trying his best to look compassionate.  

Below is a sea bass' petition to change his name to something less delicious. 

Dear Governing Entity of this Seafood Holding Tank:

It has been brought to my attention that my life is in danger due to my very moniker.  A nemesis of mine, a tuna who now refers to himself as “Rupert,” has been taunting me lately. He points out, quite accurately I’m afraid, that “giant sea bass” sounds like something that would indeed go well broiled, baked, or grilled atop a serving of saffron basmati rice.   "You're gonna fryyyyyyy," he snickers.  So immature. 

As I’ve been captive in this seafood holding tank for weeks now, I’ve had time to fully consider this.  And while Rupert is a smarmy jerk, perhaps there is some wisdom to be mined from his insults.

I would like heretofore to be called “Harold” instead.  No one pan fries a Harold. “Baked Harold with butter sauce” sounds wrong and unseemly.  

If you could kindly affect this name change before the dinner menu is printed up for tonight's meal offerings, I would be most appreciative.   Also, if you could make a note that the Rupert Tartare is particularly fresh and palatable this evening, that would be truly splendid.

Thank you - ever so much - in advance.

-Harold, the fish formerly known as “Sea Bass.”

Gazelle Noise Complaint Letter to Zoo Management

Above is a picture of Garth-Floyd (foreground) sunning himself with his half-brother Cleavon just hours before writing this letter.

Below is Garth-Floyd's grievance letter, which cites his condemnation of zoo's owl population -- namely their obtrusive hooting. 

Dear Zookeeper,

I'm a sensitive type.  Sensitivity comes with the territory of bein' a gazelle, you know. Just the way God made us. But---I just gotta make a complaint.  You gotta do something about the owls. Evict em, send ‘em packing.  If you don’t, I will.

I’ll break it down for you -- nice and simple like. I spent all morning and all my afternoon trottin’ around the fence, makin’ the kiddies smile. “Ohhhh look at the pretty deer,” they squeeled. Note: I ain’t no damn bambi.  But…what do I do? I skip, and leap, and otherwise pretend to…frolick.   Oh, I hate myself. The things I do for a handful of feed.  

So, tonight, I really need the peace and quiet. But, to be fair, I am feeling pretty swell.  I finally got that saucy lioness, Chompserella, to agree to hop her fence to go on a date with me!  We are gonna rendezvous at the elephants' watering hole.  Boy howdy, you shoulda seen her.  Her eyes lit up.  She told me she liked the sensitive types like me. She even licked her lips, hot damn!  So if these damn owls mess this up, I’m gonna be mightily ticked.

So, to get on with it, I need my beauty sleep tonight, you see.  Gotta look all fresh and irresistible for my date tomorrow. 

And if these owls know what’s best for ‘em they better shut their beaks -- or else me and Chompsy are going to have them for dessert tomorrow night.

-Garth-Floyd the Gazelle

Editor’s Note:  Garth-Floyd did not survive his date with Chompserella the lioness. Chompsy did, however, have the owls for dessert.

Seymour Seagull's Second Suicide Note

The above is a picture of Seymour.  Perhaps his mental illness stems from the fact that he thinks he's a seagull though he's clearly... not.

The below is his second (last?) suicide note.  To read his first, click here: Seymore's First Note

Well, as you might have guessed, I'm still alive.  Not a zombie, not a vampire, just a forsaken soul.  

Here's how it went down the first time it didn't go down: I was flying due west into the horizon.  I prayed for a brisk gust of wind to send me spiraling down, down, down into the sea.  My wish was granted, praise Gaia. But, alas, I had forgotten how well seabirds float. We float very, very well. We're bastards. 

So I regroup and I rally: This world-weary and regrettably buoyant soul lives to try again!  

New Plan: I have decided I shall feed myself to one of the more absurd looking foofoo dogs who wander these grounds led on Italian leather leashes by their masters, the fools.  I think death by Poodle would be a fine end to my mockery of a life.  I shall walk right up to the pitiful beast and climb into its toothy mouth.  

And if these bones and these feathers resist defeat by Poodle, I shall commission a larger creature -- perhaps a  Labradoodle -- to do the deed.

If not by Poodle, then surely by Labradoodle, I shall find peace.

~Seymour   

Heartbroken Hamster Haiku

The above is what Rascal would have created -- had he been born a painter and not a poet.

Below are seven haikus penned by Rascal, a garden variety hamster.  They are written about Charlotte, a particularly striking blonde angora hamster with whom Rascal spent the first few weeks of his life at the PetSmart in Culver City, CA.     

The poetry was written over the course of his two and a half year lifespan.  

I eat over here.

I run yonder, in the wheel.

I poop over there.

I sleep next to her,

Safe in a nest with her, and them.

Life is good, for now.

* * *

Where’d it all go, my...

My warmth, my nest, my love, her?

I miss the pet shop.

Now daytime is for :

Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep

And to dream of her.

Wonder where she sleeps,

Still safe in a nest with them?

Does she remember?

* * *

It’s been two years now

I’m on my last leg, I think

But I’m not afraid.

I’ll see you soon, love

If hamsters go to heaven.

A nest in the sky.