Point/Counterpoint: The PetCo Fish
Point
There’s something wrong with my tropical fish
By Freshwater Aquarium Enthusiast
I’m concerned about the health of my tropical fish I bought from PetCo a few weeks ago. When I first got them, they darted around the tank playfully and gobbled up their whatever-it-was that came from that container with a picture of some ugly fish eating it on the front. Now my angelfish is writhing sideways on the gravel substrate, my Siamese fighting fish’s tail melted off, and my catfish is upside down in the gray trash bin outside my house.
What kind of damaged stock is PetCo trying to peddle me? What is it with these wimpy fish? I have the generosity to place them in the fish equivalent of a well-furnished five star hotel suite with 24-hour room service, and they return the favor by growing fungus gardens on their backs and frightening my children. I bought all those expensive medications, salts, foods, toys, cleaners, heaters, filters, and yeah, I poured all that shit in there and mixed it up pretty good and plugged all that other stuff in too.
Maybe I didn’t read every little snippet of fine print on the bottles, or listen to every little instruction from that busty store clerk while I was staring at her bosom, but frankly, I’m not an idiot, and I find it highly fishy that my fishes are systematically dying just as they pass the end of the 14-day store guarantee.
If “Jesus” and “Ferdinand” don’t get better soon, I’m going to litigate.
CounterPoint
There’s something wrong with my sadistic owner
By “Jesus” the Angelfish, (Pterophyllum scalare)
I’m concerned about either the sanity or the intelligence quotient of my owner that bought me from PetCo a few weeks ago. It was rude enough that he felt entitled to uproot me from my PetCo home where I had established a casual sex relationship with eleven fine female angelfish, not to mention a great view down the shirt of the busty young fish section employee during feeding time, and the first thing he does after owning me is to leave me on the dashboard of his beamer in the sun for two hours while he shops for new leather shoes at an adjacent outlet mall. Boy, were his kids excited when he surprised them with the five fish he brought home from PetCo, but he never did let them see the three charbroiled corpses of the others that didn’t survive the 116 degrees Fahrenheit Mercedes leather interior oven.
So, of course, we started getting sick after that, especially when our living conditions are akin to being locked into an overcrowded motel six room in which, exclusively, we are forced to eat, sleep, and poop. Larry the catfish, he was the first to go – he’s sleeping with the fishes now. I’ve got a bad case off egg constipation, but lately I’ve been lying low and pretending it’s worse than it actually is.
I’m hoping my idiot owner will mistake me for dead and flush me down the toilet where with any luck I can navigate a thousand miles back south to tropical freshwaters. The bastard eats tuna fish sandwiches right in front of us, as he slowly cultivates deadlier water quality each day with his haphazard combination of chemicals reacting to form poisonous compounds that modern science has yet to discover.
Tell my 3,220 children I love them very much, and that I’m sorry for eating so many of their siblings.
