Hey, Great White Shark. Whatcha doing?
“Honestly? No idea. And call me Bruce.”
Sure, Bruce. You were supposed to be racing Michael Phelps tonight.
“Oh, right. Yeah, that was all bullshit.”
“Fucking show biz, right? Bet that bastard Spielberg had something to do with it.”
You’re still pissed at him?
“He promised me points on the back end!”
Oh, well, there you go: there was no back end to that movie.
“Didn’t do too well?”
“Huh. Didn’t see it.”
Out of town?
“In the ocean. I’m a shark. No theaters here. Hey, you think Magic Johnson would open one up?”
If you were a Great Black Shark, maybe.
“Everyone’s racist against white sharks, man.”
Not racism. Terrified of being eaten.
“That’s racism! I’m not gonna eat people!”
“You taste terrible.”
“You’re just bone and gristle and hair. Gimme a seal any day.”
You guys do love seals.
“Dude, they’re all muscle and blubber.”
And that’s good?
“What the fuck do you think a steak is, dummy?”
True. So, you could’ve beat Michael Phelps in a race, right?
“I can beat Michael Phelps in a spelling bee.”
He’s not bright, no.
“But in a race? Shit, man. I’d rock his world.”
You sound sure about that.
“I have a fucking six-foot tall tail, bro. I swish that sucker once or twice and I’m across the pool. Well, actually: I’d die from the fresh water, but you know what I mean.”
Sure. So, what’s next for you?
“Just got hired on by the White House.”
You’ll fit in well there.