Oh, To Be A Blobfish

‘I just want to be loved’
A brief appraisal of one nature’s unfortunates

It seems perfectly absurd to me that anyone would ever reply to the question ‘What animal would you most like to be?’ with any answer other than ‘A blobfish’. The majority of people say some sort of bird, most commonly an eagle. What sort of an answer it that? OK, so if you were an eagle you could fly, which would be pretty cool. But overall I think being an eagle would be a pain in your feathery backside.

You’d have to ‘preen’ yourself, a process which involves shoving your sharp, quite possibly blood smattered beak, repeatedly into your stomach. A) That must hurt and B) can you imagine the neck problems you’re soaring so majestically towards. When your feathers are turning grey and your neck is too stiff to repeatedly ram your pointy face into your own stomach, then what’re you going to do? Flying wise, sure it’d be fun for a couple of weeks. But after a while I think you’d get pretty sick of it, all that whirling around getting buffeted by the wind. And imagine having to do that bloody circling every time you wanted to eat anything. It’d be like making a bacon sandwich in the morning, putting it on the kitchen floor and then having to walk circles around it for ten minutes before tucking in, by which time it’d probably be cold. No one would ever want to eat out with you. Imagine your shame-faced dinner date staring despairingly up at you from your position astride your baffled neighbour’s table. Whilst you try to explain to the disgruntled waiter you must assess every meal from some sort of elevated vantage point before taking the first bite; just to make sure it ‘really is leek and potato soup’.

Another common answer is a lion. Seriously? Firstly, despite your formidable afro and powerful roar you’d be deeply psychologically insecure. Even though you pretend you’re ‘the King of the Jungle’ in reality you’re just a stay at home dad. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just that psychologically the weight of your false regal titling is bound to wreak havoc on your self esteem. As your wife heads out to catch the zebra, poacher or whatever she can get her breadwinning teeth into, you sit at home and flap your fluffy tail. Not to mention your daily frustration when no amount of conditioner under the African sun can tame those diabolical, frizzy split-ends. Because you’re not worth it. You’re really just a big softy pretending to be well ’ard due to tremendous amounts of backcombing and excellent dental hygiene. If someone were to throw a small ball of thread in front of your feline face you’d be batting that bundle of stringy joy around like a kitten with a catnip problem.

You get the odd joker assuredly stating ‘Definitely a dog’, which in my opinion is about as inventive as using a spoon to eat cereal. There are obvious benefits of being a dog. You get fed, patted gratuitously, taken on walks and for some reason have precedence over all other animals in the friend ratings (man’s best friend, no biggie). But, can you imagine spending your whole life riled up about the most menial things. You hear your favourite toy squeak – your tail starts hammering like a steam-powered piston. You meet a new person – you can’t help but scream repeatedly in their face and shove your nose in their crotch. You see a squirrel – you absolutely lose your shit. It must get tedious being so damned excited the entire time. And don’t get me started on saying hello to your fellow compadres, or more correctly sniffing hello. Nope, you can keep your canine aspirations to yourself. For me, it’s the blobfish.

There is no messing around with this blobular dollop of grump. You are what you say you are. No endless preening, no King of the Jungle complexes, no emotion at all really. After all, you’re just a blob. No obligations. No responsibility. No one’s even going to talk to you cause you look like you hate everything. The only qualification you need is a stoic resignation to being one of the grumpiest, ugliest, most useless creatures on the face of the planet. What does your daily agenda look like? I reckon pretty darn easy:

10am – Start your blobby day. No need to ‘get ready’, you’ll still be ugly.

12am – Scowl at a sea urchin for a couple of hours.

2pm – Eat ‘lunch’ – you don’t care what, you can’t taste.

4pm – Maybe swim around a little. Maintain blobby demeanour.

6pm – If you’re up to it, pen a couple of sonnets. If not, see above.

8pm – Attempt to smile at a shark.

8.15pm – End up scowling at a shark.

8.20pm – Avoid being eaten by the shark by being so physically repulsive.

10pm – Rest your weary head/lumpy top half of your blobby body.

So, if a life of carefree gallivanting, a legitimate disregard for your personal appearance and absolutely no social obligations appeals to you; welcome to the blobfish army. Or as we like to call it, “The Blarmby”… it’s a work in progress.

The next time someone asks ‘what animal you would be if you could be anything?’ look them straight in the eye and rest your hand lightly upon their quivering cheek. Perhaps squeeze said cheek a little, if it feels appropriate. Then, holding their slightly terrified gaze, with a look of stern conviction gently whisper; ‘a blobfish’.

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