Mr. Shark has a conversation with Santa

Dear Mr. Shark,
What do you want for Christmas?

 - Santa







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Oh hey Santa.

First of all, thank you for asking and not just assuming I'd want a reindeer. My mother got me one last year...I didn't have the heart to tell her, (I'm not even sure sharks have hearts) but I've never really liked them. The meat is pretty gamey, and the antlers scratch my throat. And I won't even get into what they're like coming out the other end.

Anyway it was a big mess. I didn't have the original receipt, so when I tried to return it I could only get store credit.  There wasn't anything else I wanted at the reindeer store, so now I'm stuck with this dead deer I'll never use crammed in the back of my closet. Fortunately my closet is THE OCEAN, so there's plenty of room for it I suppose.

I'm not a big fan of elves either. You'd think they'd taste like candy, but they are also surprisingly gamey. And they get all in your teeth. Last time I ate one I spent the whole rest of the day flossing out their sticky little fingers.

As for what I do want, seals are always a good go-to. You can never have to many, kind of like socks.

Honestly though, what I'd really LOVE this Christmas is you. You're so festively plump...I'm just dying to sink my teeth into that bowl full of jelly.  Plus you eat cookies all the time so I bet your blood tastes like cinnamon. I know it's a lot to ask, but I've been good this year...as good as any bloodthirsty murderous predator of the sea can be, anyway.

All I can say is, if I find your delicious corpse under my tree Christmas morning, I'll be as giddy as a schoolgirl covered in dead puppies.

Love,
Mr. Shark

The pug collector

Hello relatives. So glad we could get together again for the holidays, that special time of year when you all compete to make the most inappropriate comment about my romantic life. From impossible
questions like “I know you're not dating anyone, but are you at least having sex?” to last year’s revelation that “an accident baby would be totally fine with us,” you never fail to keep me on my toes. But this year, I’m confident all the awkward remarks and emails of sperm donor profiles you think “look nice” are going to stop. Everyone gather ‘round please, I have an announcement to make.

I’ve started a family.

Hahaha! No, it’s not a family of cats. I’m not some kind of crazy person. Plus you know I’m allergic. They’re pug dogs!

At first I just had one for companionship, a little present I gave to myself on my 30th birthday. But since then, I’ve gone pug wild! After this month’s litter, our family will be 25 strong. Clearly with this many pugs in one household, kids are out of the question. But don’t worry mom, I assure you my little puggies are just as surprising, rewarding, and soothing to breastfeed as human children.

If you don’t believe me, just take a look at the adorable pillows they gave me for Mother’s Day! See the intricate cross-stitching? The thread was spun from all the fur they shed over the past year. Isn’t that sweet? Well, yes, obviously I did all the physical sewing myself, but they provided the delightful dog-isms. I couldn’t have come up with something like “I woof you very much” on my own! And just look at the charming misspellings and cute little backwards “e’s” (silly pugs don’t know the alphabet!)

Now I know what you’re thinking, “how do you keep coming up with names for all these snub-nosed angels?” It’s a simple formula really. My eldest, John, was of course named after my father (I think they have the same chin.) Successive pugs were named after my failed relationships, starting with Brooks Jackson, the middle school crush who made fun of my sticker collection and the fact that my boobs hadn’t grown in yet, all the way to Adventureguy72, the Match.com date who still hasn’t called (and also had no appreciation for my sticker collection.) When I ran out of ex-lovers I began naming them after television stars I find attractive (no chance I’ll run out of those, lol!)

And yes, the pugs are all male.  I find that females of any species always end up being jealous of me.

Anyway, let me pass around the photo album, I know you’re dying to see all my babies. Oh, and does anyone have a laptop? I want to show you guys the hilarious home video we made last Saturday night. It’s based on my personal strength idol Fergie and her hit song “Fergalicious.” Hugh Laurie, my rascally middle child, had the great idea to change the words to “pugalicious.” We already had plenty of costumes, so we decided to record a little music video. What a hoot!  Let’s all watch
it together. Don’t be embarrassed dad, the first time I saw it I laughed so hard I cried too!

Ok, I’ll get down from the table now. I guess this has been a pretty long toast, and you guys look like you need to start drinking.

Cheers and Happy Howlidays everyone!

Top 5 things to do with my recently extracted wisdom teeth.

1. Hide them in a co-worker's sandwich. When they take a bite, yell "IT BIT YOU BACK!"

2. Wear them on a necklace and tell everyone they belong to people I've killed (seems a little cliche though.)

3. Mail them to an ex-boyfriend I haven't spoken to in years with no explanation or return address.

4. Carve an entire set of baby teeth from them, and donate to a baby in need.

5. Stocking stuffers!

A 15-year word itch

One day in middle school, my friends Amy, Lauren and I were outside and noticed something like this: 

"Look at that stupid bird, it's all puffed up. I think it is trying to intimidate us."


"Yes, yes, birds do that, they puff up to look intimidating.  There's a word for it....I can't think of the word."

We discussed the issue for a while (possibly for hours), but could not come up with the word.  We figured that surely one of us would think of it eventually, probably hours later in bed or something, and we'd all know the answer by morning.

"The answer is Garfinkel, hooray!"

Unfortunately, the aha! moment never happened...

(did not happen)

Since then, this mysterious avian jargon has pecked relentlessly at the back our brains, causing the annoyance to swell very much like a bird trying to look intimidating.  We've done numerous internet searches, watched nature documentaries and even consulted bird experts at the zoo, all to no avail.  Once, at a raging Georgia Tech house party, Amy and I spent an entire evening thumbing through an Audubon Society bird encyclopedia.  It's been fairly ridiculous.

Today, Amy will be looking at a couple of new phones at the phone store.  She's planning on asking the Iphone Siri what the word is for when birds puff up to look intimidating.  I've been thinking about getting this phone too. My decision will be based 100% on whether or not it delivers the correct answer to the age-old question..."What the f@&k is this bird doing?!?!"

Childhood songs that kept it real

These days, kids songs are all just pansy, self-esteem boosting crap. But back in the day they were all about cannibalism, death and getting dragged to hell by goblins.  Here are a few me and my cousins used to sing:

Mr. Johnny Verbeck
Once there was a Dutchman
His name was Johnny Verbeck
He made the finest sausages and sauerkraut and speck.
He made the finest sausages that'll evermore be seen,
Till one day he invented a sausage making machine.


Chorus:
Oh, Mr. Johnny Verbeck how could you be so mean,
I told you, you'd be sorry for inventing that machine
now all the neighbors cats and dogs will nevermore be seen
They'll all be ground into sausages in Johnny Verbeck's machine.

One day the meat inspector came knocking at the door,
He said "I'll start a looking or give me money more."
Well Johnny got real angry and pushed him in the meat,
he fired up the old machine and now there's more to eat.

Chorus

One day the machine got busted, the darn thing wouldn't go,
So Johnny Verbeck he climbed inside to see what made it so.
His wife she had a nightmare, went walkin' in her sleep
She gave it a yank, a deuce of crank, and Johnny Verbeck was meat!

Go tell Aunt Rhody:
Go tell Aunt Rhody
Go Tell Aunt Rhody
Go Tell Aunt Rhody
The old grey goose is dead.

She died in the millpond (3 times)
From standin' on her head.

The goslins are crying (3 times)
Because their mammy's dead.

The gander is weeping (3 times)
Because his wife is dead.

 The Goblins will get you:
Once there was a little boy who wouldn’t say his prayers
And when he went to bed at night, all the way upstairs,
His Mommy heard him holler, and his daddy heard him bawl,
And when they turned the covers down, he wasn’t there at all!

And they searched for him in the attic, and the cubby-hole, and press,
And they searched up the chimney, and everywhere, I guess;
But all they ever found was his pants and round about
And the Goblins will get you, if you don’t watch out.

Once there was a little girl who liked to laugh and grin,
And make fun of everyone, her family and kin
Whenever there was company, and guests were sitting there,
She mocked them and she shocked them, and said she didn’t care!

Suddenly she kicked her heels, and turned to run and hide,
There were two great big Black Things standing by her side,
They snatched her through the ceiling before she knew they were about!
And the Goblins will get you, if you don’t watch out.

Poop reprecussions 20 years later

10/12/11
Katie -  the mom in your fecal drama with the ginger kids in their christening dresses turned up in my water aerobics class.  There was more to that story.  Zach was shooting garage sale arrows that were reaching their back yard. She had come over to complain, and of course our doorbell didn't work. Zach wasn't exactly a powerhouse but her concern was that she was pregnant. Kinda like the "baby on board" on a car mentality. I was busy primitive firing pots in the Weber kettle with lighter fluid and hay. .. Bad scene.  Anyway I'm hopping around with as much grace as possible in the class and keeping my conversation erudite to live down the skanky impression. Love, Nana

Personally, I think this is a great opportunity for Nana to keep it real.  Next time, I recommend bringing a (waterproof) bow and arrow to class. Point it at her every once in a while...just to make sure she knows that if she ever dares to tread (aerobically or otherwise) in your section of the pool, she will pay with her life.

Poop: from the archives

On a recent visit to Chicago my brother Justin and I saw our cousins Zach and Annie after almost a decade.  In typical holiday style we did a lot of ham-eating and childhood reminiscing, telling stories from those five or so years when we were all eight years old and left to run wild in the care of our grandmother, Nana.  There were several gems, but one in particular stands out...mainly because it involves poop. 

We were at Nana's, of course, taking a break from making clay pinch pots (or eating clay…or birth control pills…or glow in the dark toys) to patrol our territory in the back yard.  Our fort was under constant threat of invasion from the house behind us.  The ginger kids who lived in the yard were creepy and awkwardly clean, wearing christening gowns and chasing butterflies across their unnaturally manicured lawn.  I'd like to think they were also French. 

It was during routine booby-trap maintenance that Justin (the elder) came up with our most ambitious defense maneuver to date.

We were going to arm the holes with human poop. 

Zach nearly crapped himself on the spot from excitement, while Annie and I offered up half-hearted "ewws" to fulfill our girl roles.  But in our hearts we knew we'd be right there to witness every filthy step of the shit spectacle.  

Though never discussed, it was understood the poop was the responsibility of the eldest, so for the next few hours Justin focused steadfastly on his goal, devouring every piece of roughage he could get his grimy hands on.  The sheer volume his stomach could hold was both awe-inspiring and repulsive.  When the moment finally arrived, he darted up the stairs to the bathroom and set to his business as we clamored behind.  What seemed like hours later, and after a notably absent flush, he opened the door and let us in to view his digestive masterpiece. 

Once we had accepted its enormity, we had to figure out how to move the beast.  Transport was precarious.  Nobody wanted to touch it (would have been gross) so we had to figure out an elaborate cup/bucket transfer system.    Miraculously there was no poo-skin contact, and the fecal weaponry made it to its destination intact.

The gingers were appalled (it was probably the first time they had ever seen poop) but instead of having the desired effect of scaring them away, our plan only lured them closer so they could lecture us on the dangers of poor sanitation.  One was even bold enough to slip through a crack in the fence, effectively invading our side. 

It was on. 

We'd tolerated their polite conversation and their disturbingly freckled faces before, but this time they had crossed the line, quite literally. 

Hatred boiled in our veins.  We knew we needed to take serious action to defend ourselves from the red-headed insurgence.  It was secret-secret weapon time.  Time for arrows.  And not the sissy-kid nerf kind, but real buffalo-hunting, shoot-you-in-the-heart ARROWS.  We had found them the previous day "dumpster diving." They were in mint condition, complete with a functioning bow and razor-sharp arrowheads. It was the perfect moment to unveil their glory. 

After a brief fracas over who got the first shot, Justin took aim at the daintier ginger. Whizz.  Miss.  He passed the bow around, and we each took aim at the red bulls-eyes of the children’s heads as they ran around the yard in terror. We cackled like savages, and our eyes blazed fire as they cowered in true French fashion.  In the confusion, one of them stepped in the poo-hole, letting out a desperate shriek of fear and disgust as they limped off crying.  Either out of pity or archery inexperience we didn't end up actually hitting them with any arrows, but they certainly never bothered us again. 

Success.  Finally we were left alone with our poop, which even Justin admitted had gotten pretty gross at that point.   We ended up burying the poo–baby ceremoniously, and even marked the site like the grave of a beloved pet.

At some point the gingers tattled (of course) and sent over a frantic mother to alert our guardian. But by then we'd moved on to falling into window wells, and her knocks went unnoticed beneath the blaring Celtic music and the hissing of hamburgers on the frying pan.

This barrel of monkeys is not as fun as promised

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to express dissatisfaction with my recent purchase of your product, “A Barrel of Monkeys.” A barrel of monkeys has long set the bar for fun, and after speaking with your representative over the phone, I was assured that my expectations for comical antics would be more than met. Since it was a special occasion, I decided to splurge and purchased your deluxe package: a 55-gallon barrel packed to the brim with live monkeys.

Eight days later, the package arrived just in time for my tropical-themed housewarming party.  Upon opening the barrel, however, I discovered several defects.  First, the monkeys were in sub-par physical condition.  Their hair was matted, and several of them had had their eyes gouged out by the other monkeys. Their unveiling really put a damper on the festivities. I had just started an impressive conga line, but once my guests saw the monkeys, the room fell silent as everyone stopped to gasp at the “poor wretched creatures.” And this was before I had even gotten to the monkeys at the bottom of the barrel, which at that point were no more than clumps of bloody fur.

In addition to the cosmetic issues, the behavior of the monkeys that were still alive was also quite disruptive.  The good-natured pandemonium I was expecting from the product was anything but. They didn’t mimic human mannerisms, perform acrobatics, or even attempt to play the cymbals I had provided. In fact, one of the monkeys threw several of them quite maliciously towards my guests. The sharp edges of the discs proved almost deadly when thrown with such force.  It was clear that being trapped inside a barrel for a week had not made these monkeys jovial.  It had made them angry.

After the near beheadings, the party quickly deteriorated into a state of violent chaos. The next few hours were a bloody blur of biting, scratching, and ghastly shrieking. In the middle of the bloodbath there was, however, a brief charming moment when the monkeys’ focus turned to the banana piñata I had hung in the foyer. Dazed with hunger, they all raced towards it with delight, and clumsily tried to unpeel it.  Silly monkeys. It wasn’t even a real banana! Of course when they discovered this deception they became even more violent, descending in a rage upon the nearest victim, my coworker Herbert, who feebly tried to defend himself with a pair of decorative fireplace tongs. Herbert is still in the hospital. His injuries have almost healed, but psychologically he has a much longer road ahead. A road paved with simian night terrors and chronic zoophobia.

Eventually, animal control and the fire department had to be called in to get the situation under control. I’ve spent hours scraping caked feces off of my walls and carpeting, and believe me, rabies shots for my entire party did not come cheap. But I suppose the outcome could have been worse. My doctors told me that if the panicked monkeys hadn’t scratched at the sides of the barrel during transport, their claws would have been much sharper and the damage to my corneas would have been permanent. Also only two people died.

Nevertheless, I feel that the “fun” promised by your product was a false claim, and I expect a full refund. I have enclosed the original receipt along with the barrel and most of the monkeys (a few of them are still trapped in my ductwork). Additionally, I feel I am entitled to a discount for a live housecat, as the one I owned previously was dismantled and eaten by your defective product.

Rick Perry 4 Prez (cont.)^3

 

 

Rick Perry 4 Prez (cont.) (cont.)

 

 

 

 

 

Rick Perry 4 Prez (cont.)

Rick Perry 4 Prez

 

Mr. Shark has a hangover.

Sorry, no advice today….Just had a KILLER night in Vegas and I’m wayyyy too hungover for that shit.

Ugh, my hotel REEKS of stale blood. There’s gotta be a hundred seal carcasses in here, I can’t even make it to the bathroom without tripping over a dismembered leg.

I swear one of the strippers I ate must have been drugged because I’ve never gotten this out of control before.  What was the name of that place again? “Leave it to Beavers?” I blew so much cash there, dude. I must have shoved twenty fish heads down June Cleavage’s g-string, and she didn’t even seem to appreciate it. I guess it was a little degrading when I made her balance that red ball on her nose while I screamed “perform for me seal!” But she’s a stripper. If she wants respect she should go back to that college she’s pretending to pay her way through.

Seriously though, they’re never going to let me stay at the Venetian again.  The concierge told me they had to completely drain the canals last night. And that even after a thorough scrubbing, the sides of the gondolas still have a pinkish stain from “the night when the waters ran red with blood.”  I don’t know what I was thinking. For some reason romantic gondola rides always give me a craving for fresh hearts.  

It also doesn’t help that Sergei – whose half-eaten corpse is currently crammed into the mini-fridge – was one of their most requested gondoliers.  Looking at him I can understand why.  You can still see a glimmer of warmth in his now dead eyes, and the smile frozen on his lifeless face really lights up a room.  I might have his leftovers for breakfast if I can stomach it.  I remember him tasting like kindness.

Ugh, maybe not though, I’ve already eaten so many empty calories already. Nature’s deadliest killing machine?  More like nature’s fattest killing machine. I feel more bloated than a body that’s washed up on shore. I mean, I was so wasted I didn’t even realize those people at Madame Tussauds were made of wax. I ate the entire N’Sync display. Totes not looking forward to shitting out Lance Bass’s acrylic hair for the next week.

Just thinking about it makes me want to vom all over again.  I need to get some hair of the dog up in this piece.  I hope there’s an animal shelter on the way home.

Later bitches,

Mr. Shark

Mr. Shark offers his advice to a steam punk enthusiast

Dear Mr. Shark,

I'm jumping head long into this steam punk thing and I need some advice. What kind of hat should I buy? 

Thanks, 

Maurice E.

Portland, OR

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Dear Maurice,

Good to hear from you again.  I see you are making great strides since our last chat. Apparently steam punk obsession is second only to LARPing in it's ability to attract human women.  

As for your hat, I recommend the old stand-by, the seal-head hat.  I wore one to my last steam punk meeting and everyone was both delighted and befuddled.

Making the hat is quite simple.  First, you'll need to find an appropriate seal, one with a symmetrical, round head-shape is ideal. Once you have found your target, you'll need to dive down at least one nautical mile beneath it.  Then, gather up all the strength you have and swim full-force at a 90 degree angle towards the seal.  If you get the angle right, you will easily be able to remove the head of the seal with a clean cut. Be careful once you've made the bite not to sever the spinal cord though. You'll need that later.  

After you've secured your head, you'll need to gather a few pieces of decor to give it that classic Victorian-industrial steam punk aesthetic. I've eaten several divers over the past few days, so you'll easily be able find everything you need by foraging though my poo. Plus, the mixture of my stomach acids and the ocean's salt water has added a nice aged patina to the metal parts. A mask bitten in half, for example, makes the perfect retro-futuristic monocle, and adding a regulator to your seal's mouth gives it bit of ironic whimsy.  I also recently swallowed an analog computer, so if you'd like, you can use some of it's gears and assorted parts for extra flair.

Voila, you now have the perfect steam punk hat. Just place it on your head, tie the spinal cord around your chin and prepare to be the belle of the steam punk ball.

Love,
Mr. Shark

Mr. Shark offers his advice to an aging Forrest

Dear Mr. Shark,

I'm almost 30 and don't have a wife or kids.  Should I just shoot myself, or what?

Forrest B.

Los Angeles, CA

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Dear Mr. Forrest, 

First of all, gross.  What is wrong with you? By your age I’d already sired 12 tiny murderers, 3 of which I’ve already murdered myself.  Also, I gave advice about this in yesterday’s post, so I really don’t understand why you haven’t been able to impregnate a female by now.

That being said, unless you are dangling off the edge of a boat, I don’t think shooting yourself is the best idea.  I think you should end your life in a more meaningful way.

Sacrifice yourself to the ocean gods. 

I read about it in this book of ancient wisdom once. It said that ocean god sacrifice volunteers were revered as heroes because their sacrifice rid their human villages of plague, hunger and terrifying Willem Dafoes. I don’t remember their name, but it was some obscure tribe that doesn’t have a Wikipedia page or any other evidence proving their existence, so don’t bother looking them up. 

I’ll just tell you what to do.  First, you’ll need to make your skin nice and slick by shaving all the hair off your body.  Be thorough, the ocean gods hate stubble.  Next, you’ll begin a process the ancients referred to as “marinating.” To do this, you’ll need to soak in a tub full of seal blood, fish heads, and sesame seeds (adds a bit of teriyaki flavor) for at least 3 days. 

When you’re ready to enter the ocean, walk out to at least neck-deep water. You can bring a surfboard or water wings for fun if you want.  Once you are submerged, make sure to clap, bark, or balance a red ball on your nose so the ocean gods know what to look for. They have millions of rows of razor sharp teeth, so when you feel them sinking into your torso or leg, you know they’ve found you, and that your generous sacrifice will soon be complete, and your village, saved. 

But please make sure you do this before your 30^th birthday. Ocean gods don’t like old meat that’s all nasty and tough.  

Love, 

Mr. Shark

Do you have a burning question that only a swimming death machine can answer?  Submit it now to mrsharkadvice@gmail.com.

Mr. Shark offers his advice to an awkward Maurice

Dear Mr. Shark,

I’m awkward around girls. How can I be more smooth? 

Sincerely,
Maurice E.

Portland, OR

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Dear Maurice,

Since the only two emotions I am capable of feeling are bloodlust and violence, I’m not entirely sure what you mean by “awkward.”  So I will instead offer you my best advice on how to fertilize a female.   

First, make sure you are swimming in the designated mating waters, which for humans would include bars and grocery stores. Next, scan the area to locate the most fertile female.  I believe that in humans the sacks of fat hanging from the female’s chest are a good indicator.   

Before you approach the female, be sure to block all the exits with chairs, large rocks, or piles of dead seals so that she cannot escape your advances.  Then begin circling and bumping the female with your nose. Chicks love that shit.  Once she is intrigued, show off your dominance with a love bite.  I usually go for the fin, but for you, the fleshy part of the upper arm or thigh should work.  Now you should easily be able to impregnate her with one of your two penises (or is it penii?). 

Before you know it, you will have created two to three beautiful embryos, and after they engage in the adorable baby behavior known as in-womb cannibalism, you’ll be left with one dominant, murderous shark baby. 

But parenthood doesn’t end there.  Remember to teach your children well.  Specifically, let them know which areas of the seal beaches are your territory.  You don’t want to end up having to prove your hunting prowess by killing your own spawn.  I’ve been there, and believe me, it’s TOTES “awkward” as you might put it…

Hope this helps Maurice,

Mr. Shark

Do you have a burning question that can only be answered by a swimming death machine?  If so, you can now send your questions to mrsharkadvice@gmail.com

Mr. Shark offers his advice to you

Dear The Internet,
Up until this point, I've only responded to questions carved into the sides of fish and delivered to me by seals. But the other day a little bird told me that perhaps my advice could reach a broader audience if I accepted questions via the world wide web.

After I ate that bird, I decided that he had a good point.  And as it turns out, in between my folds of brain tissue, which is also solid muscle and teeth tissue, I have a fully-functional laptop and wi-fi connection made of solid muscle and teeth.

Now if you have a burning question that can only be properly answered by a swimming death machine, you can send it to the email address mrsharkadvice@gmail.com, and I will answer it on this internet blog.

So send away people, I'm all ears.  And by that I mean 300 lbs of muscle, razor sharp teeth, and very tiny ears.

Respectfully yours,
Mr. Shark

Mr. Shark offers his advice on being a bad-ass

Dear Mr. Shark,

As you can see from my neck, I’m already criminally bad-ass.  But I was wondering if you had any advice on how to become even bad-assier.  Shit like having razor sharp teeth, and never sleeping or blinking.  Can I get your help with that?

Sincerely,

Mr. Neard


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Dear Mr. Neard,

For the first time in my life I’m feeling an emotion other than pure bloodlust.  I think you humans might call it “jealousy.” What you have there on your neck is a thing of beauty.  Like fornication in follicle form…something I do while swimming, which I agree, is pretty baller.  But I can’t help but feel like I’m missing out on something by being a completely aero-dynamic hairless killing machine with no discernable neck.  The neck beard is the one thing nature forgot when constructing the ocean’s deadliest predator.

I really have no advice for you other than to keep doing what you’re doing.  And maybe use a metal file to sharpen your teeth. Even if it doesn’t help you hunt seals, it will still look pretty bad-ass while you’re doing it.

Respectfully,

Mr. Shark

Mr. Shark offers his advice on managing anxiety

Dear Mr. Shark,
I've recently been suffering from extreme bouts of anxiety.  I just can't shake the feeling that something bad is about to happen.  I can't sleep, I can't eat, and I'm even having difficulty making love to my impossibly beautiful supermodel wife.  If I had to put this feeling into melodious and poetic words, I might compare it to being kissed by a rose on the grave. Please help.
Love Always,
Seal

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Dear Mr. Seal,
I think these feelings of imminent danger are all in your slick, delicious seal head.

I mean, what are the odds your every move is being tracked by 18 feet of pure biting machine?  In fact, I find it hard to believe that 200 pounds of muscle and razor sharp teeth could even float, let alone stalk you for hours, waiting for you to unveil a critical weakness. 

I recommend practicing a few relaxation techniques.  Get away from it all by spending some time in isolation.  Specifically, try to swim as far away from the other seals as possible.  Catch some alone time in a secluded cove. Or perhaps playfully chase a fish into the murky depths.  Let loose! But more importantly, let your guard down.

If you're still worried, look out for a boat with a documentary film crew on board and get into its line of vision.  If by chance you DO get attacked by a deadly and widely misunderstood predator, the scientists will surely come to your rescue, and will definitely NOT film your bloody evisceration in HD while a dramatic voiceover describes the majestic cruelty of nature.

Hope this helps.

Love,
Mr. Shark

Mr. Shark offers his weight management advice

Dear Mr. Shark,
Ever since I entered my forties, I just can't seem to shed those last 15 lbs.  I've tried everything, eating healthy, exercise, and even crazy fad diets, but nothing seems to work!

I've been trying to put myself out there in the dating world, but with this extra weight I just don't feel attractive to the opposite sex.  What should I do?

Love always and desperately,
Joyce

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Dear Joyce,
I feel for you and understand your concern.

Personally, I prefer a woman with a little extra meat. I also prefer extra meat on men, fish, beef hearts, goat carcasses, sundry entrails, and any other animal product that is used to make chum.

As for being attractive, listen to your friend Sir Mix-a-lot, and "do sidebends or sit-ups, but please don't lose that blood."  It takes but one drop to attract the world's most eligible killing machines from over a mile away. And by the time he reaches your frail, vulnerable human body, he will be so crazed with bloodlust he'll be biting everything from the sides of boats to those flimsy metal cages they put stupid divers in.

But whatever you do Joyce, resist the urge to cheapen yourself by wearing slinky clothing.  In particular, do not wear one of those chainmail shark suits that are impermeable to millions of rows of razor sharp teeth.  It will only confuse and frustrate your predator, causing him to lose interest and instead attack the next seal or seal-looking surfer who crosses his path.

Love always,
Mr. Shark

Neards through the years part 2

 

"The hair has become so coarse it can only be groomed with the finest LARPing sword."

 "I fancy myself the male Lady Godiva, and ride my stallion through the streets clothed only in long, lustrous, neck hair."

 "My other car is a gondola."

 "People call me the muffin man because I just LOVE muffins! Blueberry muffins, banana nut muffins, chocolate muffins, I've never met a muffin I didn't like.  On the weekends I make big baskets of muffins and decorate the baskets with lots of ribbons and lace and other kinds of sadness."

"I'm a bartender at TGI Fridays, but I'm also the lead singer of a sweet Korn coverband called Corn."

"I'm the lead singer of a Corn coverband called Wheat."