As seen in my last blog, I believe it’s very important to stay informed in all facets of life. So yes, that does include science. What is that, you may be asking yourself? It’s an obsolete subject matter that was heavily funded prior to January. Much like Latin, it’s outdated but should still be acknowledged for the sake of understanding our past. That’s why I read BBC for fifteenth-hand accounts of conducted studies.
I recently read an article about a dignified creature called a “shipworm,” which despite its name and phallic appearance is neither a worm or a reproductive organ. It’s a bivalve meaning it’s part of the clam and mussel family. Notice I said mussel, not muscle tissue, like a penis. I would like to reiterate that one end of this worm does indeed look like the head of a penis. But this worm is not part of the penis family. Are we all on the same page now?
The shipworm can grow up to five feet long, 1.5 times longer than any erect human penis every recorded, and it has a hard shell. Reckless men, take note. So what does this mussel-clam family member do in its spare time? Does it go to the bar and take shots until it looks in the mirror and feels beautiful? Probably not for two reasons. One; It doesn’t exactly lack confidence due to its well-endowment. Two; Being part of the clam-mussel group, it has the gene for alcoholism. “Whoa, Hannah! Mussels and clams struggle with addiction?” Excuse me while I roll my eyes in 360’s until they’re loosened from the socket. Think of the ratio of clams and mussels you see in the ocean vs a dinner plate. Don’t you think if they were sober they’d have better odds?
Anyways, let’s get back to the point of what a shipworm does in its spare time. From my extensive mono-source research I read that a shipworm is more often than not, “submerged head-down in mud.” I almost never judge but if this leviathan is lucky enough to resemble a giant asphyxiated dick, why on Earth would it waste time laying head down in piles of sea shit? If it had half the brains that I do, it would do a whole lot more than that.
Heck, I’d be squirming into the bedrooms of my enemies so they wake up next to an infected intestine. Or I’d hide in the designated White House egg carton because reportedly “It was like opening a soft-boiled egg.” I could go on all day about how this cylindrical bastard is wasting time not appreciating all the aquatic blessings it has been given. However, I mustn’t be too hard on Mr. Anemic Boner because I too sometimes loiter head down in untraditional locations. So I’ll send my well-wishes to this shipworm in all future autopsies. Amen.