Charlie the Tuna here, down in the...

Charlie the Tuna here, down in the murk and sludge at the bottom of Santa Monica Bay, still waiting for you-know-who to drop me a line.

Everybody warns me. You may not believe this, but I get fan mail down here. Triton the Sea King, the Little Mermaid’s dad, is the postmaster. “Charlie,” they tell me, “don’t get hooked. Chunky or whole, in oil or spring water, it’s all the same. Charlie,” they tell me, “forget your pride. You’re better off being a cannery reject than the insides of some first-grader’s sandwich. Charlie,” they tell me, “have you ever heard of (shudder) sushi bars?”

I know, I know.

But am I any better off where I am? It was bad enough when all that came drifting down were old boots and condoms and tires and the occasional sinking ship.

Now, according to the environmental group, Heal the Bay, “one meal of Dover sole, Pacific sand dab or white croaker . . . from the waters off Palos Verdes can expose the unlucky diner to a dose of toxic chemicals equal to the amount that a person would normally be exposed to in an entire lifetime.”

Fish like me “are plagued by tumors, impaired immune systems and reproductive problems,” not to mention “the highest level of DDT pesticide poisoning in the world. . . . More than one-third of the time, many of our beaches exceed state bacterial standards for coastal waters.”

Makes you sick, doesn’t it?

To help, Heal the Bay is staging a Cool-O-Rama Beach Party at 415 Pacific Coast Highway, Santa Monica (the old Sand and Sea Club), from 7 to 11 p.m. Saturday, featuring food from 25 top restaurants, cocktails and live entertainment. Artist David Hockney will be among the judges of a photo contest; entries by professional photographers, amateurs and celebrities will be raffled off. Tickets are $30 to $500. Proceeds go to Heal the Bay’s education, outreach and policy programs.

All this may be too late for me, though. My fins are getting paler by the minute, and if you turned on one of those super-amplifiers that can hear dolphins sing, you’d hear me cough.

I’d rather be up top, thank you. I’ll take my chances with celery and mayonnaise and knife-wielding Japanese chefs.

“Sorry, Charlie,” you say?

I hate to remind you, pal, but if you don’t save me, who’s going to get you off the hook?