Look, I’m a biologist working at the University of Miami. I study animals, I love plants, I love the ocean and its currents, but I just don’t see the point of manatees. If manatees are so cool or whatever why the hell aren’t they stronger than boats? Manatees are big for nothing dude, “grande por gusto” – understand?>Manatees do nothing and eat expired lettuce we have to feed them.
They’re underwater pieces of lard that do nothing. God damn sea-cows. Except guess what! We’re allowed to eat land cows and we can drink their precious white milk. I’ve never drunk manatee milk.
You know what’s cool? Sea anemones are cool, they come in many colors and they’re poisonous to certain fish. Sharks! Sharks are cool and they scare people and are crazy, sharks have their own week and deserve it. Manatees do nothing and eat expired lettuce we have to feed them. They’re literally worse than pandas. Pandas can at least turn their head to look around. Manatees can’t even do that because they don’t have necks. Underwater negative giraffe garbage mammals.
They do nothing, they have no real predators besides boats and they can’t even figure those out, they die of diseases and starvation and stuff, like idiots. In my professional opinion, manatees gotta get stronger or they gotta go.
The State of Florida has compiled a list of places to avoid if you hate manatees and absolutely don’t want to see them. They also have a list of resources you should avoid if you hate propaganda telling you how to help manatees instead of wanting to see manatees toughen up and stop relying on others.
Written by Michael de Armas

By Ángel SaxonA bloodied white rhino horn lies on my desk. My fellow employees from The Plantain crowd around me, a solemn hush blushing their cheeks. I snip off a smidgen of horn with my trusty pocket knife and place it onto the rich mahogany of my workstation, crushing it under the side of my gleaming AmazonBasics blade into a fine, creamy-white powder.
“Go on Ángel,” Christina Fontina, The Plantain’s secretary, whispers awe-struck in my ear. “This is a groundbreaking moment for online print media. You’re about to change everything.”
I take a deep breath, pausing to scratch my goatee and twiddle my mahogany framed hipster glasses, and place a rolled-up, torn out bible page into my left nostril.
I pause. I exhale. I pause again.
The old testament, trembling between thumb, forefinger, and nose, lowers to the neat line of white rhino powder. I take a deep, shaky sniff.
>You might think, expect even, that a pandemonium of sexual energy was unleashed
This was the scene at the offices of The Plantain last Thursday. You might think, expect even, that shortly after the white rhino powder entered my bloodstream through the sleek, white membranes of my nasal cavity, a pandemonium of sexual energy was unleashed. Perhaps you envision a mighty gash torn in my pants where my long dormant member suddenly sprung to life, endangering all in its path. Maybe you even imagine, a slight smile curling across your lips, that I finally succumbed to Christina’s endless flirtations, taking her abruptly over my magnificent mahogany desk to the sound of a rhythmic squeaking of flesh on fine polished wood while our coworkers cheered on in ecstasy. I wish that was the article I was writing.
But it isn’t. The white rhino powder did nothing for my sad little sausage. At first I was patient. But as the hours passed and the crowd around my desk dispersed, I started frantically crushing up the rest of the six-pound horn, desperately chasing a sexual dragon that never materialized.
Finally, I turned to Milo, The Plantain’s CEO, whose idea this whole sorry debacle had been in the first place.
“I thought you said this shit works!” I bawled, my composure decomposing. “I thought you said you had tried this shit ‘like, all the time’ and it was guaranteed to ‘totally fuck my dick up’?”
“Errr…” he said sheepishly. “I don’t know man, maybe your shit wasn’t pure? Did you inhale? You totally have to inhale. I mentioned the inhaling, right?”
I turned away from him in disgust. Another bust in my attempts to waken my slumbering genitalia, sure, but more than that, a savage failure to realize my dream of conquering new journalistic grounds, grounds that could have put me on the map, up there with some of the greats over at Vice News.
Just as well this was the horn of the last male white rhino in existence. At least I can take solace in the fact I paid the heavy price – both figuratively and literally – of having a poacher kill the last male white rhino on earth and deliver its horn to me, so that I could be the one to report that its legendary status as an aphrodisiac is nothing but powdered white lies.
Good riddance, I say.
Ángel Saxon is a staff writer for The Plantain.