[Originally published October 16, 2006.]

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First off, I don’t talk to them. OK?

That’s, like, the first thing. Let’s start there.

It’s not like I’m all, Hey, Peter Pufferfish, what’s up? and he’s all, Yo, nothing much, brah.

It doesn’t work like that, all right? I mean, most of them don’t even have brains, for one thing. They have maybe a bump at one end of their spinal cord, a pimply little swelling of ganglia, if they’re lucky.

Language is not a looming issue, is what I’m saying.

No, how it works is: I command them. Period, the end. Command, as in bend them to, you know, my will and whatnot. Fuckin’ A.

Even the ones with actual for-real brains, the cetaceans. If I want, you know, a pod of Burmeister’s porpoise to ram the hell out of Black Manta’s Manta Sub, that shit gets done. If I totally want, like, a southern minke whale to go hump a giant squid (its most hated enemy, by the way), I just go doodoodoodoodoodoo and it’s like Show World down there. Not that I would, because, you know, gross, but I’m just saying: I don’t ask. I’m not going to be all, If you wouldn’t mind terribly much, please, Mr. Southern Minke Whale, go get your nasty freak on with that giant squid.

Just, you know, FYI.

And it’s not training. I read that on some blog: “He just trains them to do all that.”

Dude, I can get 6 million krill to gunk up the engine of a getaway ship by having them hurl themselves up the intake jets. Mass sea-monkey suicide. OK? Try that shit with operant conditioning, with some big-titted blondie waggling a smelt, see what you get. Think they’re meting out kick-ass sea justice over at EPCOT? Shyeah.

But everyone takes their shot. Fucking YouTube and shit. Cartoon Network. Suddenly every hacky comic’s got a tight five-minute chunk on lame old Aquaman. “Haw haw haw, he’s so laaaaame, hee hee hee, go talk to a guppy!”

It’s all good. Somehow I manage to suffer through it. I soldier bravely the fuck on, comforted only by the small but telling fact that I’m absolute goddamn ruler of—what was it again?—oh, yeah: the EARTH.

The PLANET.

And you, you’re, like, star of open-mike night at the Mirth Shack in Jacksonville. And your MySpace blog? OMG! ROTFLMAO!

You used to be cool, man.

When you were a kid, you’d sit at the bottom of the Stupaks’ pool, remember? Used to sit there and pretend the kickboard between your knees was Storm the Giant Seahorse, and you’d stay under for as long as you could, going doodoodoodoodoodoo.

Remember there was that orange T-shirt you had? Remember that? That was cool.

You sure seemed like a happy little kid.

But, you know, I get it. Whatever, that was a long time ago. Now you’re all, Wonder Woman never even let him fly her plaaaane, and whatnot. And that’s, you know, fine.

I could command you. You, those Robot Chicken assholes, alla y’all. Command you all to, you know, quit it.

I don’t make, like, a big deal about that, but I could. You’re just a fish at heart, dude. Down deep in your forebrain. I fuckin’ could.

But I won’t. That’s not how I roll. I’m a hero. Plus, I’m King of the Seven Seas, so, you know, I got shit to do, right?

No, it’s fine. You rock on with your bad self, dude. Mazel tov.

Seriously, though, leave my lady out of it. That’s not cool, man. Mera, she doesn’t get it like I do. She’s sensitive. I start hearing you talking shit about her, or her hard-water powers, or that time she turned evil, and I will fuck your shit up. Count on it.