I'm just an anadromous salmon--a silver, or coho salmon--to be exact, so you probably don't care about my opinion. I mean, I have fins--not hands or a computer--so you might understandably be wondering how I'm typing this. You might also be wondering how I learned to spell "anadromous" and/or what it means. But I'll leave that to the fisheries biologists, or better yet, the people who have been subsisting on my ancestors for thousands of years to explain.
My point is this: There's been a lot of press about me accidentally blowing my wad on the President's shoes, and in my defense, the shoes he was wearing looked a lot like a redd, which is the spawning bed on which I'm usually supposed to dump my ... er ... "genetic material." So you can't really blame me for my ... er ... "mistake," (which, I might add, was a pretty bad one considering how it greatly reduces the propagation of my genes).
But I didn't come here to give you a lecture on evolutionary biology. Like I said, I'm just a salmon, albeit a precocious two-year spawner, and even though I don't actually have a name, you can call me Jack. Because that's what a precocious two-year spawner is called.
And I'd be lying if I didn't say that part of the reason I missed my target was simply excitement that a sitting United States President--the first ever to visit my stream bed--was holding me in his hands. So? I guess I couldn't hold my blob. Whaddya gonna do? Yeah it's embarrassing--especially with all the hubbub--but let's face it, any dominant male coho in my position would probably have done the same exact thing. The fisherwoman who handed me to Obama was right: I was happy to see him. Very.
I don't vote and I don't care much for politics (again, I'm just a salmon). Really I only care about three things in life: chilling in the ocean; returning to the river where I was born; and evading grizzlies, nets, trollers, and large scale metallic sulfide mine tailings long enough to jizz on some eggs and create the next generation before I go belly up and become lunch for a bald eagle.
At the end of the day, all the attention and humiliation of prematurely ejaculating on the leader of the free world was worth it. I'm just happy that I got to meet President Obama before ending up on a cedar plank with a side of scalloped potatoes and roasted asparagus, because as the world now knows without a doubt, that was totally on my bucket list.
So there's no point crying over spilled milt, which is the scientific name for my seminal fluid and that of mollusks and certain other water-dwelling animals. Honestly, my one true regret is that I didn't get a selfie.
Jack in an undated photo.
Jack, jizzing on POTUS's shoes, September 2, 2015.