Dear Squishy Humans,
It’s been fifty years.
Half a century since I gave summer blockbusters teeth. Since I launched a thousand therapy sessions and got slapped with the blame for every panicked pool noodle incident from Malibu to Miami. Since I dragged a man backwards off a sinking boat and became the poster fish for “Do Not Enter the Water.”
And yet, every July, you gather in droves, slather yourselves in coconut-scented marinade, and fling yourselves into my dining room like it’s Shark Week: Unlimited Breadsticks Edition.
Do you think I’m dead? Do you think I aged out of villainy? Let me be very clear: I am immortal. I am the reason you scream when seaweed grazes your ankle. I am the shadow beneath your floating cooler. I am the original, the legend, the wet apocalypse in dorsal form.
And I am so, so tired of your nonsense.
Let’s review what you’ve done since 1975:
· Invented Instagram so you could geotag your death wish.
· Created waterproof earbuds so you can vibe to Dua Lipa while I approach at 25 mph.
· Developed drones to “spot marine life,” as if I wouldn’t just swat that nerdy little gnat from the sky with my tail like it’s Shark Pong.
You ignore warning flags. You swim at dusk. You boogie board in bait balls. You book snorkeling excursions with people named “Captain Dave” who store raw squid next to the sandwich cooler. Do you want to be an appetizer?
I’ve tried subtle. I’ve tried ominous cello music. I’ve even tried not showing up—yet somehow, you still manage to get bitten.
This isn’t even about me anymore. It’s about your willful aquatic stupidity.
And don’t get me started on the TikTokers. You people are out there filming “POV: A Shark Encounter” while dangling sushi-grade thighs into the waves. You stare into the camera like, “Am I the drama?” Honey, no. You’re the entrée.
Meanwhile, every time I so much as pass gas near a jetty, the headlines explode: “MONSTER RETURNS.” Calm down, Brenda. I bumped a pontoon. If I really wanted to ruin your life, I’d target your group text.
Here’s what I propose:
Stay on the sand.
Touch grass. Eat a funnel cake. Take a photo by the novelty shark statue and caption it “IYKYK” like the smug little land-dwellers you are. Leave the water to the professionals: me, the jellyfish, and Karen from accounting, who’s training for a triathlon and actually knows how to swim without looking like a distressed rotisserie chicken.
I didn’t survive five decades of cinematic villainy to get gawked at by frat bros on floating coolers. I have standards. I have lore.
And I swear on Spielberg’s beard, if you play the “Jaws” theme on a waterproof Bluetooth speaker one more time, I will breach just to uppercut your paddleboard into low orbit.
Happy 50th to me,
Bruce
P.S. Yes, the Universal Studios ride was based on me. No, I don’t get royalties.
P.P.S. I hear Meg 3 is casting. Tell Jason Statham to call me. He knows.
- About the Author
- Latest Posts
Bethany Bruno is a Floridian author whose writing echoes the language, history, and quiet beauty of her home state. Born in Hollywood and raised in Port St. Lucie, she earned a BA in English from Flagler College and an MA from the University of North Florida. Her work has been featured in over sixty literary journals and magazines, including The Sun, The MacGuffin, and The Louisville Review. She’s represented by Caitlin Mahoney of the William Morris Endeavor Agency. Visit www.bethanybrunowriter.com for more.
