If I ever kill myself it’s going to be at Marineland. I’ll shoot myself in the head right in front of the front splashzone. My brain matter will get caught in cotton candy, braces and oversized foam-hands. Because don’t we all want our deaths to have meaning? What could be more meaningful than being the one who finally closes down Marineland.
Ever since we were children, our parents warned us about Marineland. “Don’t go there, they are mean to their animals!” Every few years, a health inspector digs up another cetaceans mass grave and collectively we look at each other and ask “Is Marineland still in business?”
In an age where people rush to stream documentaries about the evils of Seaworld, how does Marineland still exist?