You know those sciency types, always whining.
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“Globster”
“I don’t care what they tell me, that thing is nothing more than an overgrown pile of rotting, stinking flesh! I really don’t understand why they won’t let me do my job! We’ve had whale carcasses wash up before! I know what I’m doing! Granted, I’ve never seen a corpse this huge before, or this, well, alive, but dag-nabbit, you take one look at that mountain of waterlogged fat and tell me that thing ain’t a corpse! The feds disagree, because of course they do, can’t never let us do what we damn want. And the labcoats, god, the labcoats! Some people really oughta be stuffed in more lockers during high school, I tell ya. They go on and on about meaningless mumbo-jumbo. “Ooh, captain, it’s not dead!” “Ooh, captain, this is no ordinary whale!” “Captain, don’t you see that Blue Whale up there? IN THE SKY??? Do you even realize what that means!?” “Captain, the psycho-sonar capabilities this thing is in possession of are powerful enough to carry around multiple whales! And it’s not even fully awake! Half of its brain is asleep, do you realize what might happen if it were to wake and feel THREATENED? Are you listening to me, Captain!?” “Whales aren’t fish, Captain” blah blah blah!” Sheesh. It’s always nag nag nag with these brainiac types. Whatever. I’ve stuffed enough of nerds heads into toilets to know you gotta take control in situations like these. Which is why I’m gonna go ahead and proceed with MY plan when these bozos aren’t looking. Yep, ain’t never had a beached whale problem that couldn’t be solved by ol’ faithful… Three truckloads of dynamite!”
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