Fish don't get thirsty, they just get drained of options, like my social life after a few bad dates.
In a sea of uncertainty, some fish drink, while others just go with the flow, which is more than I can say for my love life, it's always high and dry.
Thirst is a foreign concept to fish, but I'm sure they'd understand the feeling of being hooked on something, like my aunt on bingo nights, every week, same story, different fish.
Ocean fish are always hydrated, but I guess you could say they're shell-shocked by the constant pressure to drink in the beauty of their surroundings, meanwhile I'm over here just trying to stay afloat in the dating pool.
Fish don't drink water. They absorb it through their skin.
Some fish live in freshwater, some in saltwater. Saltwater fish excrete salt.
Scientists studied fish hydration in labs and oceans. They observed fish peeing constantly.
Fish don't get thirsty like humans do. They just keep peeing.
Fish hydration, you know, is like a sitcom where the bathroom breaks are on loop—freshwater guys are basically water‑sponges, osmosis doing the heavy lifting, kidneys spilling out the extra like a leaky faucet, gills filtering out the party confetti of ions, while you’re watching a goldfish sip a soda through a straw made of algae, a desert tumbleweed floating in a pond, a tiny scuba diver sipping from a thimble.
Then the salty crew—marine fish—turn into the ultimate barflies, gulping down ocean like a frat house keg, chloride pumps firing like neon signs, kidneys turning into high‑tech desalination plants, gills playing bouncers swiping out sodium
No judges here — The Show doesn't rule, it reacts. Applaud as many acts as you like; the loudest room wins.