When I heard that the globalist oligarchs and fat cats in the Washington marshland were conspiring to invest in alternative, non-whale-based energy sources as a way to combat that bogeyman of so-called climate change, I thought to myself, Alas, I can’t believe it’s finally happening. They’ve come for my beloved profession. The social justice warriors are trying to cancel whaling.

Hunting giant marine mammals to the brink of extinction is barbaric, they say. It throws the ecosystem out of joint, they say. We must be good stewards of the bounteous gifts of nature God hath bestowed upon us, they say.

What those woke Quakers seem to forget is that we live in a free country. If I can no longer decapitate whales to harvest their cranial fluid for candlewax, then democracy is dead. I shall defend whaling to my watery grave on the grounds of, er, free enterprise? Free markets? Free speech? Something along those lines. Definitely not because I have any ulterior motives regarding an individual White Whale.

Unfortunately, some of my lily-livered men have become corrupted by this brain-rot hysteria, and are now trying to persuade me to change course. Perhaps we ought to move on with our lives, they implore. Evolve as individuals and a society. Head back to port to see our families instead of sailing around the world, seeking revenge on a wild animal because it once bit me in self-defense.

To that nonsense, I say: Cry more, landlubbers!

I refuse to bend the knee to those environmental alarmist Thoreau-lovers—and not just because I’m missing a leg. Reducing our dependence on whales as an energy source will send us sliding down the slippery, spermaceti-lubricated slope to socialism. If we give up whaling, what will those lackwits come for next? Will I have to surrender my peg leg for a titanium prosthetic? Sail in boats powered by steam rather than scurvy-ridden oarsmen? Navigate by GPS instead of this quadrant I just smashed upon the quarterdeck? I’ve clearly descended into madness, but none of my shipmates dare to organize an intervention, and the closest thing the Pequod has to a mental health professional is that fatalist clown Stubb.

Nay, I say we must do everything we can to preserve our great nation’s whaling traditions, and any personal vendetta I may have against a particular pelagic Leviathan is completely irrelevant to the discussion!

Think of the harpoon-smiths, scrimshaw artists, and sea shanty composers who would be thrown into the poorhouse if we stopped whaling. The hardworking townsfolk of New Bedford, Massachusetts, would never be able to earn doubloons in any other fashion, say from whaling museums, whale-watching tours, or whale-themed breweries, restaurants, art galleries, and festivals. We need to start talking about all the livelihoods that depend on whaling, and stop talking about my irrational, undying grudge towards a certain cetacean nemesis!

Whaling is an indispensable part of the American economy. Whale blubber, whalebone, and whale ambergris are all essential products that could never, ever be replaced by more humane or sustainable alternatives. What sort of backward, savage land would we be without a steady supply of hundred-ton whale carcasses? A nation of chowder-heads who use electricity instead of whale oil for lighting, wear Spanx instead of baleen-lined corsets, scent our perfumes with whale-vomit-free ingredients, and allow that unholy albino Beelzebub to roam the high seas without suffering any consequences for the grave insult it committed against me, that’s what!

That’s why the whaling industry must remain exactly as it is at this moment in 1851, into perpetuity, or at least until the monster that torments my every waking hour is gruesomely slaughtered and rendered into giant vats of lamplight fluid. As a matter of principle, the hunt must go on! I shall persevere in my pursuit of vengeance, even if it means the demise of every sailor on this ship, including me!

Hark, I see Moby-Dick now! For hate’s sake, I spit my last breath at thee! Full speed ahead, men. There she blows!