Being that my family and I live in a coastal town, we are privy to a run of grey whales passing by on their way to and from the gulf of Mexico twice a year. Whether this migration is the result of natural instincts or male whales refusing to ask for directions is unclear. What I do know is that our small town of Florence, Ore., recieved national attention back in 1970, when a whale caracass washed up on a nearby beach. Though tourism skyrocketed during the first few days, that began to change as
nature took its course and a two-mile radius began to smell like a port-o-potty at an outdoor sushi convention.
City officials were suddenly faced with two crucial questions:
1) How to dispose of tons of rotting whale as quickly as possible?
2) Would the “I Had a Whale of a Time in Florence” T-shirts arrive it in time? Continue reading