How dare they nominate the perverted fantasy film for 13 Oscars when all it’s done is turn my pond into a revolting sex stew?
Since the first screening of Guillermo del Toro’s new film The Shape of Water, I have caught several people fucking the fish in my pond. The gill fetish fantasy, which sees a mute woman develop a coital relationship with an amphibious fin man, has convinced many-a-weirdo that it’s okay to use my garden water feature as some sort of disgusting brothel pool. It is not.
The other day I caught one gentleman, completely billy bollocks, jumping over my fence and plunging himself straight into the pond. He then proceeded to grab as many fish as possible and thrust them upon his bare genitals. There was a lot of squirming about and the water frothed with a substance I don’t wish to disclose, but I can confirm that it fucking stunk.
When the police eventually removed him from the pond, my koi carp Jeffrey was still attached to the man’s appendage, which had gone clean through his mouth and out the other side. Jeffrey had been skewered to death.
This has happened at least seventeen more times, and now all the female fish in my pond are pregnant. Cathy, my shubunkin goldfish, has already given birth to a fish-human hybrid, which looks exactly like Danny DeVito drenched in brine. It is currently wriggling on the grass in my garden, screaming for help.
But if it wasn’t enough of an insult to have a pond full of bloated, multicoloured fish, looking like an army of Ann Widdecombes in Hi Vis jackets, The Shape of Water has now been nominated for thirteen Oscars.
I don’t care if it’s beautifully shot and has a culturally relevant message about the exclusivity of social outcasts. It’s not like it’s as good as Get Out, the satirical black comedy about how awful white people are. And that didn’t make my garden stink of cum.