Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Countess of Giglio
Pamela Anderson has been named Imperial Countess of Giglio by Prince Stefan of Montenegro. The prince bestowed the title upon her at a ceremony in Genoa, caressing her seductive shoulders with his mighty sword. What did she do to merit such a prestigious honour? For those who know Pamela, the answer is obvious – it was for her tireless efforts in field of marine conservation.
Never forget that Pamela spent years on the set of Baywatch, frolicking on the beaches in a bathing suit. Her proximity to the sea caused her bosom to burgeon with an abiding affection for the oceanic fauna, including the octopi and squid. Her activism on their behalf was relentless. Fishermen were picketed, lobsters were liberated and shrimps were mourned rather than eaten. Those she could not save were given a decent burial at sea (or in the rest room). The destitute of the deep revered her as their Mother Theresa.
Her compassion for marine life is all the more admirable when you consider that most humans treat the ocean as a giant larder and recreational pleasure pond. Jacques Cousteau was the exception to the rule. The trendsetters of today like to speed through the waves in their motor boats and yachts, ramming hapless turtles that get in the way. As for the fellows with surf boards, they pretend to be lovable hedonists who’ll let baby seals play with their toys, but they only really care about riding the big one.
Even my ancestor Bo’sun Bananas, a mariner through-and-through, made derogatory remarks about sea creatures in his diaries. Here is an entry from 13th August 1803:
Today at noon the Captain flogged an able seaman for unnatural acts with a dugong. How a well-travelled man of the world could mistake a whiskered mound of blubber for a tavern wench is beyond my ken. I blame it on the grog. Better to suck the juice from lemons that befuddle your wits with that unholy brew. It’s amazing what you can see from the crow’s nest…
In defence of the noble bo’sun, I should point out that gorillas of the early nineteenth century were very naïve about their human cousins. The idea that seafaring men might have a fetish for chubby marine mammals would never have occurred to them. It takes years of anthropological observation for such nuggets to be absorbed into the folklore of a species.
Can humans relate to ocean-dwelling animals without eating them, ramming them or having sex with them? Maybe the case of Flipper the dolphin offers some hope for the future. As far I can tell, he willingly performed favours for his human friends without being bullied, coerced or intimidated. Possibly they bribed him with fish, but such arrangements are habitual in the animal kingdom.
My advice to the Imperial Countess of Giglio would be to appoint a dolphin as her nautical advisor and swimming coach. It may not be able to teach her the backstroke, but it would certainly give her a ride back home.
Labels: countess, dolphins, Flipper, Pamela Anderson, surfing
