If there were one thing I could say I've learned recently, it would be that one really has to watch what one says around fish. (Although I wouldn't say this around fish, naturally.)
Prior to last week, saying things around fish was not a big concern for me, since I had no fish. I'd just walk around my room saying anything I liked. (Sometimes in my underwear...ha ha! Don't put that in the column.) Just how did I obtain such radical freedom? Did I improperly solve for the square root of freedom? Was I not supposed to do that? In any event, my room used to be devoid of animals. No mockingbirds, no grizzly bears, no bloodthirsty vampire bats, no Giant Northern Snow Hippopotami. Nothing, pretty much. When my mom would call and say to me, "Eric, I bet your room looks like a zoo!", I would be forced to hang up the phone in shame. Sometimes I would even call her and not say anything and just hang up, several times over the course of an hour, to save her the trouble.
But this all changed last Monday, thanks to the miracle of modern technology. Most notably, that part of the miracle of modern technology where you drive to the pet store and get fish. It is a simple exchange, really -- you give the Pet Store People your money, and they in turn give you some fish. Except the trick is, their end of the bargain is all a charade, since both parties know ahead of time that the fish will die immediately upon exiting the parking lot. Which is fine, because fish shouldn't be driving anyway. Not while in plastic bags.
Surprisingly, my fish made it home alive, and aren't they lucky because just a few short days later I purchased (just for them) a fish tank. The fish tank usually consists of, in total: two fish, one tank, a kind of liquid, and one plastic plant against which the fish continually vie for the prestigious title of Longest Attention Span In The Fish Tank.
Now I am not saying that fish are stupid, or that they have short attention spans. I am saying both of these. If you can think of another insult, then I am saying all three of these. And with good reason: whenever I observe my two new fish long enough to give them a chance to display their intelligence, which is that of aluminum, the conversation they are probably having becomes apparent:
Fish One: "Hey look, a plastic plant."
Fish Two: "Hey look, it's you."
Fish One: "Why, another plastic plant ... the odds are incredible!"
Fish Two: "You again! Of all the creatures!"
Not classically intelligent members of food chain, fish also share the distinction of being things that I always forget to feed. In junior high school I was positive that all fish were equipped with a button that they'd press and make you forget to feed them, and instead feed yourself double. I wonder if the weight gain and laziness were connected, in retrospect.
I have learned much since those days, however -- mostly from watching pet food commercials. Such as, if you happen to be watching pet food commercials, you are probably in the same room as a television, and there is probably an interesting show on, and so it might not be a good idea to get up and feed the fish just yet.
I am not suggesting that the commercials themselves are mere background noise. Rather, they are tremendously misleading background noise. How many times have we seen an advertisement showing one of the four-legged icons of our generation--Morris the Cat, or Taco Bell Dog the Dog, or Mikhael the Centipede, or whoever -- getting all excited and downright woozy at the mere sight of a human being approaching with a package that might contain anything at all edible? The animals in these commercials go CRAZY, as if they have not eaten since Kevin Costner made the news . My fish, on the other hand, do not share this culinary vigor. It doesn't matter from which angle I approach the tank, or how fast I am travelling, or how wonderful the food smells, or what I am wearing...the simple fact remains that fish just don't get all that excited over mutton.
Since I probably now have you hating my fish and thinking they are stupid, I may as well tell you a little about them. Their names, as of recently, are Lawyer and Billy. Originally I had some trouble telling them apart, since they are both similarly fish-shaped, fish-colored, and apathetic toward my existence. Thus, I went ahead and named them, and lo! (Literal translation: "I still have no idea.")
That all is said and done, do come and visit us in our sanctimonious zoological abode. But so as not to offend Lawyer and Billy, which would be presumptuous and rude, while in my room please refrain from vocalizing any of the following sentiments:
"One really has to watch what one says around fish."
"Something's fishy around here."
"Go fish."
"Never mind, there are bigger fish to fry."
"I think my mom is calling."
"This room really could use a grizzly bear or two."
