The Bacterium and the Blue Whale - Episode Two
A white whale seeks professional help to overcome his blues.
by Martin Smith
‘Doc, are you there?’ Physeter called out into the pitch dark of the Mariana Trench.
The Doc’s two orbs, green and luminescent, lit up next to Physeter’s left eye.
‘What? Physeter? Back so soon? Didn’t I just see you three weeks ago? I would’ve thought by now you’d be the most liked creature throughout the oceans of the world.’
‘I was, briefly. But now I’m the most disliked. And to be truthful, Doc, I’m feeling more than a tad blue.’
‘Blue, still? Tell me, on the palette of blue, how blue would you say you feel?’
‘Umm … well … I’d say … umm … ultramarine.’
‘That’s not good. Can you tell me why?’
‘Well, Doc, I took your advice and headed south until I reached the Great Australian Bight. I had a consult with Dr Carcharias, who proved to be the most sage and congenial great white shark I’ve met. When I told her about my wishing to be liked, she prescribed I get a social media handle and set myself up as an influencer.
‘Heeding her prescription, I branded my site Having a Whale of a Time. I started pumping out posts on life, honest barnacles-and-all reflections about work-life balance and inner peace and exuded positivity and finding one’s bliss; you know, all that stuff the masses caught in the daily grind aspire to but have neither the courage nor discipline to attain. All posted with a quip, a pout and dare I say more than a hint of exposed blubber. It must have struck a nerve with the social media universe, Doc, for the likes—millions of them—just flooded in. Before I knew it, I was the most liked being on the planet.’
‘So what happened for you to become so disliked?’
‘Last week some hacktivist who called themself Jonah hacked my accounts and began posting all this abhorrent misinformation. A cesspool of bigotry, racism, sexism, ageism, sizeism, heterosexism, xenophobia, transphobia, classism and ableism. All toxic. All chaotic. All lies. That’s the problem with social media, Doc: no one knows what’s true or false. And no one really cares. Most of them just want distraction, under the guise of “entertainment”, from their miserable lives or to have that smug, warm-and-fuzzy feeling from thinking they’re morally superior to those whose lives are exposed and ridiculed on the small screen, or else they hide away in the warmth and comfort of their abodes, glued to their screens and buying shit online they don’t need or having their minds filled with fear of the big, wide world, hence forfeiting their birthright to get out and about and live rich, meaningful lives. And the politicians and the big corporations just feed this constant stream of misinformation, brainwashing everyone so they don’t even know they’re being taken for a ride.’
‘My word, Physeter, three weeks and you’ve become the world’s biggest cynic. No wonder you’re blue. So, tell me, what then happened for you to become so disliked?’
‘Well, Jonah’s posts went viral, and the likes for me ceased immediately, replaced by hundreds of thousands of dislikes, all accompanied by the vilest and most hostile comments. I couldn’t even access my accounts to defend myself. Things settled down a bit that night as Jonah’s posts slowed to a trickle, but when I woke from a quick power nap, Jonah had come straight out with it with one final post: an image of me with my head reflected in a most unflattering light, below which read the caption: Can this dickhead get eight billion dislikes? Social media took up the challenge, and in a matter of minutes I became the most disliked—indeed, most hated—influencer in cyberspace.’
‘Why didn’t you just start a new platform?’
‘Truth is, Doc, influencing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. All that pouting, all that preening, all that pressure to produce new content. Nor are those digital likes like real likes. They’re just cold, soulless noughts and ones. Not like a warm, heartfelt real like made face to face. Besides, it’s not “not being liked” that’s making me blue. It’s something deeper, something more heartfelt, that I’m missing. I want to be more than liked, Doc. I want to be loved.’
‘Loved, you say? Well, if you wish to be loved—truly loved—then I prescribe you head north. I’ve a relative up in the East China Sea, an Aunty Xiangqinon, who specialises in pairing Asian cows, brides-to-be, with gentlebulls of age and leisure like your portly self. She knows what ignites the flames of passion. Yes, she’ll soon have you loved up. That’ll get a bit of rosiness in those pallid cheeks of yours.’
‘OK, Doc, that sounds fantastic.’
‘My pleasure. Good luck and book another consult if things don’t work out. And remember to avoid V. vulnificus.’
‘Will do—’
But the two luminescent orbs suddenly disappeared, leaving Physeter in pitch darkness.
