This past weekend, posers everywhere stocked up on Hot Pockets and Fruit Roll-Ups, then geared their DVRs to ensure they never miss a minute of the ever-important “Shark Week” on The Discovery Channel. As Americans, it has become somewhat of a tradition to waste our time on less than deserving television programming. Women obsess endlessly over the childishly fake Bachelorette, and I shamelessly waste three-and-a-half hours of a Tuesday night watching Astros vs. Marlins without blinking. Regardless, Shark Week obsession is a new low. It knows no boundary of race, sex or creed. It is all consuming, and it must be stopped.
The worst thing about Shark Week is how people feel the need to constantly talk about it. Every year, the week beforehand is littered with unprovoked reminders from strangers that next week is, in fact, Shark Week. I have a TV, douchebag, and I’ve seen the commercials. Discovery Channel is not paying you to advertise. It’s pathetic, but the country hasn’t been this united since 9/11. Republicans and liberals snuggle up on the couch together and watch “Shark After Dark” while hippies and Vietnam veterans high-five each other when some dude finally gets ripped in half on “Top Five Eaten Alive” after 45 minutes of meaningless buildup. Afterward, all of these retards get on Facebook and change their status to “SHARK WEEK MOTHER FUCKER” then tweet “#SHARKWEEK #MOTHER #FUCKER” before hopping on Google+ and joining a hangout with other losers to watch the next episode together. If everyone would just shut the fuck up and enjoy their own TV in the privacy of their home, I might have less hate in my heart. There is a remote possibility that if I was the only person in the world that knew about this week I would be able to squeeze a small bit of enjoyment out of it.
I don’t see how such a multitude of people can be this ecstatic about garbage, and the only logical explanation is that most of these super fans have never even seen a Shark Week show. Either that or you’re all too stoned to realize that it’s all recycled footage and overhyped nonsense. I watched two episodes to fuel up on anger before writing this column. One consisted of marine biologists discussing a myth about a great white shark (that had never been captured on camera) and an attack that allegedly took place (no proof was ever found) with stock footage of great whites spliced in. It made me want to punch myself in the dick. The next episode was a guy trying to “deconstruct the popular image of sharks as sea monsters.” His theory is that if you show no fear, and give them no reason to hurt you, these gentle creatures will do you no harm. He stood in a few feet of water for 45 minutes surrounded by sharks while the cameras rolled. I became irate, believing this hour would be void of action just like the last. But then, out of nowhere, one of the giant bloodthirsty killers got bored and ripped his fucking calf off. I’m talking completely off. It was awesome. Eight hours of surgery were required to save his life, and his leg looks all kinds of crippled now. You should have seen the look on my face. I had finally witnessed a bit of entertaining footage. I began to question my very existence and thought, “Have I been wrong about Shark Week all along?” Nope. The rest of the show was about how that moron went back to the exact same spot where he’d served his calf for lunch, and “repeated” the experiment. Except this time he was rocking a “Trained by Super Predators” t-shirt, didn’t seem to go as far out into the water, and was surrounded by way fewer nurse sharks. When he wasn’t attacked, he proclaimed his theory correct. I felt my blood boil.
In closing: Planet Earth is cooler, the great white shark jump captured above will never be beaten, Andy Samberg should be put to sleep, reenactments are for Mississippi trailer trash, and Bruce in Finding Nemo was a degenerate British addict.
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