When I was born, I was very pink. I had a birthmark on my head (which has since faded) that made me look even pinker. And of course, I was bald. My nose was kind of squished from being violently expelled from the dark warmth of my nine-month home, and my eyes were squeezed tightly shut. But my mum loved me, despite all that. Eventually, I started to smile and play and turned into a relatively normal looking human (if devastatingly handsome can be called normal). Of course, for the first few years I shit in my pants and had to be spoon fed, but I had a mother who wiped my both my butt and the food from my mouth. The Blobfish, while it’s pink and bald and squished, has no loving mum to wipe its mouth, leaving it in a state of perpetual deep-sea sadness, where smiling and playing is impossible.
If the Blobfish didn’t disgust me so much, I’d want to hug it and make it feel better. But since it’s basically a vile, slimy pile of awfulness, I don’t want to hug it. I want to run from it. Lucky for me, it lives far away. Incredibly far, actually. Blobfish, either in an effort to hide their good looks from the media or as an effect of evolution, live mainly at incredible depths: around 3000 ft. As Xzibit would say, “Now that’s deep. How deep? It’s deeper than Atlantis. Home of the scandalous, big bad Los Angeles.” Thank God. If I were Jacques Cousteau and I ran into one of these things, I would throw my little beanie at it, climb out of my submarine, and, after imploding from the pressure, swim for the surface in a mad-panic. “DID YOU SEE THAT!?” I’d ask my shipmates on my arrival at the surface. “THAT’S THE MOST DISGUSTING THING I’VE EVER SEEN!” Of course, I’d say all this in french, but I don’t speak french and you don’t understand it, so it doesn’t matter.