Earth’s whales to release flying cloud of bone eating zombie worms around billionaire hypocrite Pam Omidyar: “Dude, we’re pissed.”

July 3rd, 2010

Remember Son of Sam?

David Berkowitz? Terrorized New York City

in the summers of 1976-77 by wandering the streets,

shooting lovers with a .44 Magnum Charter Arms Bulldog handgun

(an excellent choice for each and every American, says the Supreme Court)

as they necked in parked cars? Said he was just doing as he was

verbally instructed by Sam, the dog of his neighbor?

Son of Sam was absolutely out and out crazy –

not helpful, brilliant crazy,

just batshit crazy.

I know this

because the whales I play cards

with were here last night, taking more of my hard-earned

taoist poetry money in Texas Hold ‘Em, and laughing about the nonsense

spouted by Son of Sam. “Dogs can’t talk, everyone knows that,” a big gray whale

said at the dining room table, causing the others to shake their barnacled

heads ruefully. “Pair of cowboys and a trey of ladies! Slide that pot on

over here and shuffle ‘em, BW.  Ooh, ooh, got a little itch

on my schnozz — get that for me,

would you, buddy?”

Whales love to interact

with people.  Never mind that, though,

let’s murder them for “cultural heritage” reasons!

Actually, they’d prefer that we didn’t, they told me at poker.

Another thing the whales told me at whale poker night is that they

are weary of Pam Omidyar’s multi-billionaire boo-hoo hypocrisy about

saving them from horrifying torture and death, and they’re planning on spout-

launching a cloud of bone eating zombie worms at her and everyone she

hangs with. Are you familiar with bone eating zombie worms?

What about “whale fall”? Know anything about

old growth forests? Pull up

a chair, cousin.

If you think

a giant redwood tree is amazing

just for itself, you should go learn about how

many species live in its canopy, at varying levels, and

along its trunk, and in its root system. Then, when you’re

properly amazed by what a colossal city it is, read about what

happens when it dies and falls over. A whole other conglomeration

of mammal, reptile, insect, and micro/bacterio/fungal creaturoids take over

as it slowly dissolves into the forest floor. This process takes hundreds of

years, over which each and every tree sustains the lives of generations

of creatures. When all that is done, it lies there for further

centuries as nutrient-rich humus, feeding and

supporting the next generation

of trees.

Whales are the

giant redwood trees of the ocean.

Like redwoods, they’re pretty close to gone;

like redwoods, they’re the largest, longest-lived,

most peaceful and intelligent and groovalicious souls in their

neighborhood. When whales die, they perform a service nearly identical

to that of trees in an old growth forest. Occasionally one drifts up

onto a beach, but by and large they undergo what is known

as “whale fall”, whereby they sink, very slowly,

to the ocean floor.

They don’t just

spout their last breath and tumble

off into the void. They die, and as their bodies

decompose — with the help of dozens and hundreds of other

critters, just like sempervirens – they begin to sink, slowly. Sometimes

during decomposition gases build up and a whale in fall will rise part way again.

Then one of the creatures, generations of whose children will never know

another world than the body of this whale, will do what it does and

nibble open a vent, or excrete a chemical which nullifies the

expansive properties of the gas, and the whale will

begin its stately descent to the

ocean floor again.

There are at least

28 species of life in the world’s oceans

that are found nowhere else but on a whale fall.

The science on this is a little thin because, while we can

sit in Las Vegas and fly a Hellfire missile into the

lap of a ten year old girl driving to a wedding

with her family in Afghanistan –

– we haven’t yet sorted out

the rudimentary technology that it would

take to track a dying whale and thoroughly chronicle its fall.

Anyhow, one of the players in the ethereal drama of the

depths known as whale fall is the bone eating

zombie worm. Check ‘em out:

They anchor themselves

with that thing that looks sort of like

a cloud of snot, and they lunch on the skull and

vertebrae and jawbone of the whale. And that, I was told

by the gray whales I played poker with last night, is what they

aim to spout-launch at the billionaire hypocrite Her Royal

Hiney Baroness von Omidyar. “We’re mad as hell,”

they bellowed, “and we are not going to

take it anymore!”

You might wonder

how the bone eating zombie worms

are going to get to Pam Omidyar, faux ocean

advocate who deletes her Twitter account when her

hypocritical yap is exposed. I did. Well, you probably also

wonder how those little shrimp that appear within a few days

in a high mountain lake thousands of miles from any ocean when it’s

been refilled by rain after a constant drought of nine years get there. They’re

seeded in the ground, maybe, and lie dormant for incredibly long times.

Or they’re blown on the wind, carried aloft by thunderstorms and

deposited. We’re a little hazy on the science there, too, because

the money our society could spend on science largely goes to

funding the next generation of weapons being developed

at Lockheed and General Dynamics. But

creatures have wily ways.

Wiliest of all, they say, are

the whales.  Humpbacks, whom the Japanese

and Norwegians and Icelanders and Greenlanders kill –

you know, by shooting them in the head with a big gun, Son of Sam style –

and whom the Sea Shepherds save, as Pam Omidyar understands

very well, work in groups to blow huge bubble nets around

krill to trap them, then swim up through

the center of the bubble

nets to feed.

And they command

armies of bone eating zombie worms

just like the Wicked Witch of the West commanded

multitudes of flying monkeys, which monkeys oops I mean

bone eating zombie worms are flying straight for Pam

Omidyar, the talking Texas Hold ‘Em whales say,

to worm her good. Or so I am told by

the barnacled behemoths.

“She wants to talk shit

about saving the whales and then keep her

powder dry when presented with an opportunity to do it?!”

coughed a female minke at my card table. “That freckle-ass girl has

got a lesson to learn. Didn’t she ever see any of those videos on

Live Leak where worms crawl out of someone’s

cheek or nose or eyeball? Sistah

better recognize!”

Gross. Well.

I’m not a part of that.

I’m down with whales, though.

If they’re pissed off and want to carry

the microscopic larvae of the bone eating

zombie worms in their moist, warm lungs, as they

say they can do, and spout millions of them into the air around

Her Royal Hiney and her Court as they swim around her home in Hawaii,

or past the beaches of her beachfront luxobillionaire resorts, that’s their deal.

I don’t like to see a woman or her family or friends or employees consumed

alive by bone eating zombie worms; no one ever does. On the other hand,

if someone could flex her pinky and keep me and my children from

being shot in the head and back and womb with exploding

harpoons, and then drug backward by a monstrously

powerful ship until we drowned, and didn’t,

I’d be a little out of sorts too. So, you

know, I feel you, whales.  I hear

you, zombie worms.

Altruism is a source

of goodness for yourself and others,

medicine alleviating all troubles, the great path

traveled by the wise, nourishment for all who see, hear,

remember, and contact it, possessing great efficacy for

advancing others’ welfare.  Through it you

indirectly achieve your own

interests in full.

Tsongkhapa