Which is better?

A poster featuring a young, thin, tanned woman appeared in the window of a gym. The caption read, “This summer, do you want to be a mermaid or a whale?”

A middle-aged woman whose physical characteristics did not match those of the woman on the photo posted a public reply.

To Whom It May Concern:

Whales are always surrounded by friends (dolphins, sea lions, curious humans.)
They have an active sex life resulting in adorable baby whales.
Whalesong echoes throughout the sea, exuding contentment.
They have even recorded CDs, the sales of which aren’t half bad.
They play. Pods of whales have games.
Whales have a blast running with dolphins, roaming the seas, seeing wonderful places like Patagonia, the Bering Sea, and the coral reefs of Polynesia.
They are incredible creatures with virtually no predators other than humans.
They are loved, protected, and admired by almost everyone in the world. People go out on cruises just to try to see them!

Mermaids don’t exist.
If they did exist, they would be lining up outside the offices of psychoanalysts complaining of identity crisis. Fish or human?
Their songs lure ships to crash on the rocks, like siren song, and some have traded their voices to the Sea Hag, to their eternal regret.
They don’t have a sex life because they kill men who get close to them, not to mention, um, well . . . how could they have sex? Just look at them . . . where is the equipment?
Therefore, they don’t have kids either.
Not to mention, who wants to get close to a girl who smells like a fish store?

The choice is perfectly clear.

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Author: shalanna

Shalanna: rhymes with "Madonna" and "I wanna," and is not a soundalike with "Hosanna" or "Sha-Na-Na." Aging hippie with long hair, husband, elderly mother, and yappy Pomeranian. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon. I started with fiction, which Mama said was "lying." “Don’t tell stories,” she would admonish, in Southern vernacular. “That's all in your imagination!” When grownups said this, they were not approving. So, shamed, I stopped telling stories for a few years--rather, I stopped letting anyone read them. I'm married to a fellow computer nerd who doesn't really like hearing about writing, but who reads sf/fantasy and understands the creative drive. I'm actually a nonconformist/hippie still wearing bluejeans and drop earrings and the Alice-in-Wonderland hair with headbands and sandals. Favorite flavor is chocolate/orange, favorite color is either Dreamsicle orange (cantaloupe) or bubble-gum pink, favorite musical is either Bye Bye Birdie, Rocky Horror, or The Producers . . . wait, I also love The Music Man. Is this getting way too specific and irrelevant yet? Obvious why I don't sell a ton of flash fiction, isn't it? To define oneself, I always say, it is good to make a list. How about a booklist? Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth, Cheaper by the Dozen C.S.Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (all the Narnia books) J.R.R.Tolkien,The Hobbit/LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye (before dismissing it, actually read it) George Orwell, 1984 Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle Donna Tartt, The Secret History Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn James Allen, As A Man Thinketh Mark Winegardner, Elvis Presley Boulevard James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum Winnie-the-Pooh/House at Pooh Corner, A. A. Milne Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie The KJV and NIV Bible (each translation has its glories)

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