Omelet Shark

I walk into the living room to eat some cereal and there's a shark on my sofa.       

"What the fuck are you doing on my sofa?" I ask the shark.

"Dude," says the shark, "you care if I crash on your couch here for a little while? I was out in the ocean but its all cold out there and shit. I was hoping – you know – maybe it'd be cool if I crashed here for a little while."

I sigh and think. The shark looks at me with the pleading eyes of a desperate ocean predator. Eventually I break down and decide to let the shark stay.

"Well, I guess it's cool if you crash on the sofa for a little while. But don't stink up the place."

"No sweat, man," says the shark. "Seriously, bro, you'll hardly even notice I'm here.

A few hours go by. I'm hanging out in my living room watching television with the shark. After awhile I start to forget he's even there. I go into the kitchen and pour out a bowl of some oat rings cereal I got on sale at the grocery store. I shouldn't have bought it because it's some real crappy cereal.

I bring the cereal into the living room and start eating. The shark is sprawled out on the sofa. Family Feud ison the television. The category is "Things you would find in the ocean," and the shark is being all loud and saying, "Oh shit, dude! This is so easy!"

The game starts. A large woman in a purple dress is asked to name something you would find in the ocean. She puts her hand to her chin and concentrates.

"Shit, woman!" shouts the shark. "Say plankton! Say plankton you fucking bitch!"

I roll my eyes. "She ain't gonna say plankton," I tell the shark while shoveling a spoonful of crappy oat cereal into my mouth. "I bet you she ain't even gonna say fish. She's gonna say water or seaweed or something stupid like that."

The woman guesses water and the audience cheers.

"What the fuck?" says the shark.

"Dude," I say to the shark, "don't even tell me you just touched my remote control with that flipper you've had shoved down the front of your trousers all this time."

"Maaan, I'm sorry. I wasn't –"

"Dude – just don't –"

"Fucking lobster? The bitch just guessed lobster! Can you believe that? What a stupid fucking bitch! Dude, this show is fucking retarded."

It goes on like that for awhile. Eventually the shark gets hungry and starts trying to let me know but without saying so. He grabs his
belly and says, "Maaaaaaan…" and shit like that so I know he's hungry; he just doesn't wanna ask. Now I'm not really one to give into that sort of shit usually, but right now I'm feeling charitable for whatever reason.

"Yo shark, you want some food? I'm gonna grab me a sandwich or something. This cereal is gross."

"Shit man, that would be kickass."

"What you want?"

"Man, whatever. I would eat plankton right now."

"Dude, just tell me what you fucking want or come to the kitchen and get it yourself. I'm not gonna try to read your fucking mind."

"Alright, alright."

I go off into the kitchen and make myself this mean pastrami sandwich. You see I've got this real thick mustard that's spicy as hell. The shit is fan-fucking-tastic! I throw the sandwich in my food bowl, toss a big pickle on top, and head back into the living room. The shark is still on my sofa. I roll my eyes.

"Shark, you gonna get some food or what? This ain't a forever sort of invitation."

"Yeah, man. Yeah-yeah."

The shark hops up and disappears into my kitchen while I dig into my pastrami sandwich. I forget about that stupid shark pretty soon though cause I'm really into that pastrami sandwich and the mustard is just that fucking good. Meanwhile, Family Feud is still on the television. The new category is "Things people drink." I'm glued to the screen, sandwich in my hands, waiting for someone to say beer or whiskey, or maybe something weird like mayonnaise or laundry detergent. It's great. I'm totally immersed in the Family Feud universe. Then I hear a hissing from my kitchen and I remember the shark is in there.

"Shark, what are you doing to my kitchen?"

"Dude, I'm making an omelet."

"I didn't even know I had eggs."

"Yeah dude, you have a bunch of eggs right behind the beer and next to the Ziploc bag full of salami –"

"Oh shit! I have salami?"

I love salami. For a long time salami was my favorite of all the deli meats, and only within the last year or two have I allowed my tastes to wander elsewhere. Anyway, I'm pretty excited to learn that I have salami in my fridge and I dash into the kitchen.

Sure enough, that shark is making an omelet. I shove past him and into the fridge and look behind the beer but there isn't any salami. I grab a beer since I'm there anyway and could go for something cold.

"Hey shark, I can't find that fucking salami."

"Yeah man, I'm cooking it up for my omelet."

I turn around very slowly. I then look at the frying pan and see my salami cooking there. Very slowly, I raise my eyes up to those of the shark, staring into him with hatred. The shark winces a little bit. I shake some of the anger off and look back into in his frying pan. There is my salami alright. And my onions. And my cheese. And my last red potato.

"Goddamn it shark! That was my last fucking red potato! I was saving it for this weekend! That was gonna be my Sunday victory potato!"

"Well you shoulda told me, man. I was just hungry and I'm a shark and sharks like potatoes in their omelets. I mean, everyone knows that. Shit, that's pretty obvious isn't it?"

"Shark, I am going to fucking slap you if you say one more fucking word."

So the shark gloomily goes back to cooking his omelet. I storm into the living room and crack open the beer I pulled from the fridge. There's a commercial for soap playing on the television. A woman is washing some mess. Her dog was romping around in the kitchen and knocked over some juice or something. I pick at my pastrami sandwich and sip my beer and I'm watching this commercial and then I remember how awesome the spicy mustard is in my sandwich. I take a big bite and just focus on the taste of that mustard for a bit. Soon, shark comes into the room with his omelet.

"Hey shark," I say in a bullshit cheerful voice, "that omelet smells pretty fucking good!"

"You shoulda told me not to fuck with the salami and the potato, man. Why are you trying to make me feel bad about it?"

Well, the last thing I wanna hear when I'm trying to make someone feel like shit is them confronting me for trying to make them feel like shit. Now I'm even more pissed off. To counteract this I take a big bite out of my sandwich and wash it down with about half a beer. I go into the kitchen to grab another beer so I'll have one on reserve. I feel like draining every beer in that fridge one after another.

"You want a beer?" I ask the shark from the refrigerator.

"Nah, I'm good."

I grab my beer and head back into the living room. The Feud is back on. The category is now "Things you would find in a mansion."

"Money!" yells the shark with a mouthful of omelet.

"Dude, you don't find money in a mansion. You find shit people with money buy."

"Well," says the shark with his eyes still glued to the television, "Scrooge McDuck kept money in his mansion."

"Scrooge McDuck kept his money in the money bin. He didn't live in the fucking money bin."

"That's true, man, but he kept that number one dime of his in the mansion didn't he?"

"I dunno, shark. Sometimes it seemed like that dime was in his mansion and sometimes you'd see it on display in his bin or whatever. I can't remember really."

"I think he kept it in his mansion." The shark says this as if it's a law of the universe about which there can be no further debate. As if he's lived in that McDuck mansion for damn near his whole life and has walked right past that number one dime on dozens of occasions. His confidence jolts me. I'm flustered.

"Either way, I don't think it matters. Scrooge McDuck's number one dime isn't the same as saying 'money.'"

"What're you talking about, man? Sure it is. And are you telling me that rich people don't keep money in their fucking mansions? Just get over the fucking salami already. Fuck, dude. I'm sorry. Don't be such a bitch."

There is a pause. A long pause.

"You know what, dude?" I say to the shark. "You're right."

The shark glances at me to tell whether I'm being serious or not. Then with a nod he says, "Damn right," just before finishing his omelet in one bite. "Maybe I will have a beer. You mind if I snag that one you got there, man?"

"Nah, knock yourself out. More in the fridge."

Then I toss the shark a beer which he cracks open and sips at looking pretty satisfied.

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