Everyone’s so excited because some dentist from Harvard finally discovered that my tusk is actually a giant thermometer. Whoop-di-do, I’d still lop it off in a heartbeat. Everybody thinks a nine-foot long tusk is so fucking cool, until they grow one themselves.
What’s that? I’m the only mammal with a nine-foot long tusk? My point exactly.
Sure it’s unique. Sure it’s baffled scientists for centuries. Sure it was rumored to possess magical powers. God, if only. If it was magic, I’d have already turned my fins into legs, grown lungs, and transformed the tusk into a pair of Bose QuietComfort headphones.
I don’t want to talk about what the tusk is really for. Barometric pressure, temperature changes-- I mean I’m depressed already. I liked it when you thought it was a mating device, or a weapon. At least that had mystique. I used to be like a God, a God of the sea. Mysterious. Elusive. My bones had medicinal powers, they could cure diseases, change lives. People didn't know if I was a friend or not. They wanted to know, but they were also afraid. Afraid of my power. Afraid of what my tusk and I might do.
Now everyone knows it’s all bullshit, and all I can think about is how I’ll never drive a BMW.
Let’s face it, all this cooing and ogling from the scientific community, a profile in The New York Times, none of it changes the fact that I’m freakishly ugly. Do you know what the word “narwhal” means in old Norse? “Corpse whale.” A whale that looks like a corpse. Wonderful. You know what I think about that? I think it’s an insult to corpses. At least they don’t look like they’ve been poked in the eye with a giant waffle cone.
So, seriously, think about that the next time you talk about how “wonderful” it is that my task has “sensory abilities.” Your feet also have sensory abilities, except they’re wearing the new Nike Air Flight Banger TB’s. Must be nice.