The French company building a coastal nuclear power station in England proposed to build an elaborate noise machine dubbed a “fish disco” that would use 288 underwater speakers to repel fish that might otherwise be sucked into its cooling system.
The Wall Street Journal
It’s Friday night and I’d be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t lookin’ for some action as I step inside Neptune’s Castle, the hottest disco in the Atlantic Ocean. My lifespan is 3 to 5 years–if I’m lucky and don’t fall for some guy’s cheap fishing lure like some of my buddies did, and others are likely to do. They don’t know the difference between a good female–one who’s gonna lay a million eggs for you to incubate–and a bunch of plastic and feathers tied together.
And then there’s the other risk that just appeared on the ocean floor. A freakin’ nuclear reactor that needs to suck in thousands of gallons of sea water to stay cool. Suck on this, I says when I heard about it, it’ll keep you cool.
That’s why they built Neptune’s Castle, the swankiest spot this fish ever swam into–assuming I can get past the bouncers, a couple of plug-ugly blobfish who’d die of fright if they ever saw themselves in a mirror.
The place is packed and throbbing to a disco beat. I know, I know, disco’s tacky dance music for working class schlubs and ethnic types like shad and eels, but there’s some classy babes here as well. I cast my eye over at a couple of comely dolphins leaning against a bar, just waiting for someone to buy them a drink. Don’t know about you, but personally I’m attracted to the big forehead-high IQ babes. Beauty’s only skin deep, as my mom used to say. You want someone you can talk to when the first passion of youth grows cold, and God knows when you hit the ocean floor it’s really cold.
I start to make my move but stop when I realize–I don’t know what I’m gonna say. Can’t use the old “Heaven must be missing an angel” gag, fish don’t go to heaven unless maybe Flipper got in on a one-time exception. “If looks could kill, I’d be dead right now” is a bit over the top. Maybe I should try something devious and . . . just be honest. Like . . .
“Hi–can I buy you a drink?” The two roll their eyes as if I’m ignorant.
“Thanks, we have all the water we need,” says one.
“But you can dance with us!” the other says.
Well all right, then! We hit the dance floor and boogie down to the Queen of Disco, Donna Summer.
A couple of guys are lookin’ at me with undisguised envy, since I got two girls and they got none, but I’m enjoying my own personal little school of fish. I got two chances to get lucky tonight and spread my genetic material.
I bust some of my best moves, straight outta Saturday Night Fever. The music’s loud–there’s 288 underwater speakers, fer cryin’ out loud–so there’s no need to make flirtatious small talk. We communicate in that primordial way that all animals do, before they develop the power of language; dance, as Robin Collingwood said, was the first art form, and who am I to argue with the man considered the “best-known neglected thinker.”
Robin Collingwood
“Love to Love You Baby” comes to an end and I squire my two dames back to the bar, where one says “We’ll take you up on that offer of a drink now.”
“What changed?” I ask, being a little snarky.
“We constantly lose water through osmosis,” the other says, and she seems to be blushing. I suppose I shouldn’t ask such direct questions about a gal’s, er, plumbing, so I shut my yap and signal to the bartender.
“We’ll have two Seawater Shandies, my good man.”
“Aren’t you going to have anything?”
It’s my turn to get, um, discreet about my bodily functions. “If I drink too much I . . . uh, may not be able to perform as well later.”
“Perform what?” one asks.
“You know. Get it on. Procreate. Reproduce?”
The two look at each other, and it become apparent to me that I’ve committed some kind of gross faux pas.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say by way of explanation/excuse. “I would never presume to assume that just because I danced with you two and bought you drinks that you’d automatically . . . spawn with me.”
“I should say not,” one says with umbrage. “Dinner and a movie first!”
Sounds like somebody’s hoping for a wet dream.