After hearing all the hubbub on the quarter deck, she finally pulled herself away from her card game, smoothed down her hair and headed into the fresh sea air to check out the day's catch. Seeing Queequeg treadmilling on the whale while Ishmael tugged on the monkey rope, Mrs. Baird scrunched up her face. "What are you guys doing? Have you written your 3-2-1 concerning this task? Where is your rough draft ruminating upon the whale jaw as a parallel to the perils of democracy?" "Oh, sorry, Mrs. Baird. This can wait," said Ishmael, untying the rope and tossing it aside. "I'll get right on it." Queequeg slipped off the whale like a drunken lumberjack on a logroll. "Oh, Mrs. Baird," Ahab called out, waddling up quickly while clutching something tightly in his hand. "Yes, Ahab, what is it?" "Well, just in case this Moby thing doesn't work out for me, I was thinking about going back to school to become a florist. WOuld you mind reading these application essays and telling me what you think?" Mrs. Baird said, "Look! A white whale!" When Ahab turned, she karate-kicked him overboard.
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