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Ho-Ho-Hole
How does one go about hinting that he wants a blowhole for Christmas? Is there a particular protocol for such revelations? My life is filled with the disappointment of Christmas, due to my inability to convey my most fervent desire, the ability to swim the ocean’s depths while only occasionally returning to the surface to expel a fountain of seawater and take in another gulp of life-sustaining oxygen. Admittedly, a wetsuit might also come in handy (especially if I chose the North Sea as my destination); but if I had a blowhole, the suit would have to be specially designed and, very likely, be priced out of my family’s ability to purchase.
Maybe if I’d been fortunate enough to grow up in Grosse Point or Beverly Hills, my parents would have had perspicacity enough to anticipate my wishes and affluence enough to afford them as well… But, if I had, I’d probably also be the product of a gene pool capable of articulating semi-lucid thoughts and aspirations instead of keeping them bottled inside and developing a few nasty little anti-social quirks that shall go without further mention, except to say to Charley Flannery, if you’re reading this, I promise you, I didn’t know that rabbits can’t swim.
The conversation might have gone something like this: “Mom, can I talk to you for a minute? Instead of those totally bitchin’ socks again this Christmas, could I just have a blowhole? It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just something in a size 9, with a hydraulic quick-opening release and high-velocity, positive displacement microencapsulated circulating pump. I’m willing to wait until next year for Santa to bring me the implant surgery. I promise I’ll do my homework and chores, and I won’t ask for anything else.” THUNK! “Mom, are you okay? Quit screaming, Mom, you know how much I hate it when you get hysterical… here, let me help you up off the floor.”
Even if I were able to intelligently impart my wishes to my family, and if I were successful in retaining my composure during my forced sabbatical with the monks and men in white coats, I don’t think my parents would know how to go about purchasing one. For some reason, I don’t seem to recall a local franchise of Blowholes-R-Us. I envision my mother and father at Sears, probably in the furniture department or perhaps in dry goods, talking to a salesperson:
“Excuse me, Miss, can you show us your blowholes?” (pause)
“Er, well, I mean, not your blowhole, specifically… I’m talking about the ones you sell to the public.” (pause)
“No, Miss, I most certainly am not implying that you sell your blo-- Oh, for Chris’sake, Marie, let’s get the hell out of here, she’s calling Security.”
On Dasher and Dancer, on Flipper and Willie… on Shamu and-- oh, wait, I lost my head for a second. No, I think it’s best I keep my cetacean tendencies to myself, but damned if I don’t wonder, to this day, how a blue whale keeps the krill out from between his teeth.
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