THE MALEFICENT QUOKKA

I’m the Quokka Who Squished Your Jiggly, Gelatinous Soul

I’ve seen children beat you on the shore with sticks

G’day Mr. Jellyfish,

It’s me, Quokka Bob. I read your story, in which you proclaimed you stole my fiancé Priscilla from me:

Crikey! I thought Priscilla’s ex-husband, Gary, was a loser. But look at you. Where do I begin?

You lazy, aquatic vagabond. I’d love to see you in a whirlpool, splashing around, trying to fight the current as I smile down at you from the toilet seat while holding down the flush.

Me and my quokka mates occasionally sail the dinghy at Pinkey Beach. We always look out and see a bunch of plastic bags floating on the horizon. Then we realize it’s you and your friends. SAD.

Come to think of it, you look like that guy that was shredded up and sitting on a platter in that Chinese restaurant I went to. He was all dressed up with Sichuan peppercorns. When I prodded him, he quivered like a tub of Jell-O. I smothered him in soy sauce and ate him with chopsticks.

I bet you watch SpongeBob SquarePants and think, “I wish I could be cool, popular, and fun like him. And what a great name. SpongeBob.” Then you look at yourself in the mirror and remember you’re just a flaccid, alien amoeba wafting aimlessly through ocean litter.

You pretend that contracting your muscles and pushing out air pockets helps you swim, but I know you’re just a compulsive queefer. You’re surrounded by Rudy Giuliani fart bubbles. DISGUSTING.

And why do you only come out during a full moon? Are you a fucking sea werewolf?

You say “Danger” is your middle name. Really?

You’re the loogie I hack up every morning. You literally don’t have a backbone, and you have to fuck yourself to procreate.

Yet you insist you’re a predator. Wow. Let me tell you a story. A few months ago, I was wading in the water with my floaties when one of your floppy friends brushed up against me. I felt just a slight tingle, but as soon as Priscilla pissed all over me, that annoying sensation vanished. Nothing a golden shower and a bit of aloe vera won’t fix.

I’ve seen children beat you on the shore with sticks. You gelatinous freak. Silicone titty implants are more resilient than you.

Admit it. You’re a wannabe octopus.

And you call me “fur with toes,” as if that’s an insult? My thick fur is indicative of good breeding. And at least I have toes. I also got hoes in different area codes.

I see you describe your stings as

Ex.

Cru.

Ci.

A.

Ting.

Thanks for spelling it out like that for me. I describe myself as

Hung.

Like.

A.

Horse.

That’s right — I’m Bobberino. The one and only. Bow to me, Mr. Jellyfish. I’m the pride of Australia. You think your venom is your secret weapon? Well, I got charisma. I got a luxury fur coat with snack pouches. I got selfies with the God of Thunder.

And what have you got? Priscilla? HA. HA. HA.

Priscilla is MINE. She might be having her fun with you for now, but when you’re dead in three months — that’s your life expectancy — she’ll come right back to me.

When you’re one half of a rising power couple, side pieces like you are meaningless. Don’t forget, Bob+Priscilla= Bobilla.

Soon enough, she’ll be flying back to New York, and I’ll be right here, in our Manhattan penthouse, baking my grandma’s Lamington sponge cake. When she walks through the door, I’ll rip off my apron, welcome her with open arms, and give her my epic Stanky Legg performance. Then I’ll cram my face between her titties.

I am the Titan of Marsupials. King of the Outback. God of Rottnest Island. Future Husband of Priscilla.

I. AM. BOB.

And don’t you forget it.

Mate.

Thanks to Andrew Rodwin — I mean, Mr. Jellyfish — for the inspiration.

Find out how it all began here: