Those poor, lonely icthyologists doomed to a life of solitude, incapable of talking to a prospective sexual or life partner without mentioning fish. Or smelling like fish. Or being just a little bit wet. Like fish. Where are their ice breakers? Where are their chat up lines? Are they here?
Probably not.
Hey baby, you’re a perfect tench.
Is that an eel in your pocket or are you just happy to sea weed?
Somebody needs to call Cod because Heaven’s clearly missing an angelfish.
My gonopodium is pointing in your direction.
Your plaice or mine?
You’ve got a bass that goes on forever!
I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be sole mates.
I want to rockpool your world.
And just how long can you hold your breath?
Blowfish?
I pike you very much.
The moment I saw you I got a chub on.
You’re giving me an irresistible urge to head to the spawning ground.
Just so you know, I’m a lumpsucker.
I’ve got ctenoid scales. For your pleasure.
Let’s go to sea bed together.
As soon as I saw your halibut I thought “bottom feeder.”
I think I should tell you up front: I’m into grouper sex.
I want to batter you and wrap you in newspaper and eat you by the shore.
If I said you had a beautiful goby would you hold it against me?
You and me should get benthic right now.
I like you. I like you axolotl.
Hey baby, are you an anglerfish? Because you’re several orders of magnitude larger than me with an illicium projecting from the middle of your forehead.
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