Probably most of you don't realize the degree to which various wildlife species have fixations on completely insane shit. Not always the same shit, mind you -- it comes and goes in fads, like anything else. Here are just a few of the things I'm fucking sick and tired of hearing animals talk about:
Raccoons: Those free-spinning chrome rims. They pass the catalogs around like Penthouse.
Salamanders: The superiority of Betamax tapes. Seriously, guys?
Crows: If I could get through any interaction with a crow these days without having him quote Heidegger, that would be refreshing.
White-tailed Deer: It is not necessarily impressive that you are vegan. Since when did you guys ever eat meat or dairy, for chrissakes?
Gophers: ENOUGH WITH THE FUCKING HARPSICHORD.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Gary's Confession
Look, it's complicated, but let me just preface this by listing three things which I am resolved never again to touch: a) female badgers (holy SHIT it's not worth it), b) tequila, and c) my wallet when I'm within a three mile radius of any tattoo joint.
It sort of started when Gary got all butt-hurt about my "30% reproductive success rate" comment, and at the bottom of the fourth shot confessed the reason behind pandas getting the rep for being about as virile as a napkin full of disgorged Toaster Strudel.
"So, y'know how you, *ahem*, get used to... um, a certain thing, and then you find that later, well... this one very specific thing is all that works for you -- let's say, um, thinking about a really hot sea lion holding a lacey wadded-up apron over your face and telling you she's gonna smother you because you've been bad--"
"--Jesus wept, Gary... You are one sick bastard."
He shot me a nervous sidelong glance. "Nah, man, I mean... not that exactly... I'm just--"
"Uhhhh, right. How do you come up with something that fucked up out of the blue?"
He ignored this and went on. "So imagine that instead of it just being you that sort of fixated on something specific, it was your whole species. Then it got reinforced over dozens of generations. Until, well..." He sighed and picked a cashew out of a little plastic bowl of party mix -- I think maybe showing off his thumb-dexterity, as if to make the point that despite being sadly crippled perverts, pandas at least have excellent fine-motor skills. I'll give 'em that. They utterly fucking dominate at Xbox.
Several drinks later, I was really feeling sorry for him, and that was my first mistake. We were stumbling outside for a smoke and I'm all, "Know what, Gar? If your problem is that you have these, like, very precise needs, look no further than the badgers. Those bitches are crazy. They will do anything. Whatever your thing is -- and for the love of God don't tell me -- I know they're game."
Next I remember, I wake up in this squalorous shithole above Ricky's Tattoo Emporium, covered in scratches and bruises, my mouth tastes like the floor of a bus terminal, my wallet's empty, and there is a distinct shaved spot on my belly with a tattoo reading "Felicia Furever." (I'm not sure if this is some idiotic pun or just a misspelling, and I sure as shit have no clue who Felicia is, but I heard water running in the bathroom and got the hell out of there.)
As I was creeping down the stairs and saw all the broken bottles, it started to come back to me. To make a long story short, let's just say it was two grand bail to spring Gary, but he learned an important lesson -- do not resist arrest. And if a female police officer is in the process of reading your rights, do not suggest that she do something else with her mouth, unless you want to get your ass kicked.
It sort of started when Gary got all butt-hurt about my "30% reproductive success rate" comment, and at the bottom of the fourth shot confessed the reason behind pandas getting the rep for being about as virile as a napkin full of disgorged Toaster Strudel.
"So, y'know how you, *ahem*, get used to... um, a certain thing, and then you find that later, well... this one very specific thing is all that works for you -- let's say, um, thinking about a really hot sea lion holding a lacey wadded-up apron over your face and telling you she's gonna smother you because you've been bad--"
"--Jesus wept, Gary... You are one sick bastard."
He shot me a nervous sidelong glance. "Nah, man, I mean... not that exactly... I'm just--"
"Uhhhh, right. How do you come up with something that fucked up out of the blue?"
He ignored this and went on. "So imagine that instead of it just being you that sort of fixated on something specific, it was your whole species. Then it got reinforced over dozens of generations. Until, well..." He sighed and picked a cashew out of a little plastic bowl of party mix -- I think maybe showing off his thumb-dexterity, as if to make the point that despite being sadly crippled perverts, pandas at least have excellent fine-motor skills. I'll give 'em that. They utterly fucking dominate at Xbox.
Several drinks later, I was really feeling sorry for him, and that was my first mistake. We were stumbling outside for a smoke and I'm all, "Know what, Gar? If your problem is that you have these, like, very precise needs, look no further than the badgers. Those bitches are crazy. They will do anything. Whatever your thing is -- and for the love of God don't tell me -- I know they're game."
Next I remember, I wake up in this squalorous shithole above Ricky's Tattoo Emporium, covered in scratches and bruises, my mouth tastes like the floor of a bus terminal, my wallet's empty, and there is a distinct shaved spot on my belly with a tattoo reading "Felicia Furever." (I'm not sure if this is some idiotic pun or just a misspelling, and I sure as shit have no clue who Felicia is, but I heard water running in the bathroom and got the hell out of there.)
As I was creeping down the stairs and saw all the broken bottles, it started to come back to me. To make a long story short, let's just say it was two grand bail to spring Gary, but he learned an important lesson -- do not resist arrest. And if a female police officer is in the process of reading your rights, do not suggest that she do something else with her mouth, unless you want to get your ass kicked.
Friday, May 27, 2011
A Few Words About the Food Chain
Contrary to what you may have been led to believe by cutesy books like Charlotte's Web, Archy and Mehitabel, and A Cricket in Times Square, bugs make shitty friends. They are crappy conversationalists. They can't hold their liquor. And they have the worst taste in music of the entire animal kingdom, no lie. I'm talking catastrophically bad. I peeked at this staghorn beetle's iPod one night at Frankie's Place when he went out to throw up, and I swear, it was all 90s boy-bands and Van Morrison. Fuck me.
The problem with a bug's so-called "personality" is that... well, would you consider it an evolutionary advantage to HAVE a personality when you're basically a plastic clamshell of 7-11 nachos with legs? One whose main focus is scuttling around trying to find a dark corner in which to lay eggs before a skateboarder with the munchies pries you open, ravages your contents, and washes the aftertaste out with a Rockstar? If some little exoskeletal bastard made an effort at self-improvement, he most likely wouldn't get through 15 pages of Swann's Way before having his head gnawed off by a vole. See my point?
At the risk of making a gross overgeneralization, I'm gonna stick my neck out here and say that where your species falls on the Dumbshit Spectrum mostly has to do with your risk of being eaten. Thus making bugs just about the dumbest motherfuckers on earth. But, y'know, at a certain point it's a case of diminishing returns -- which is probably why you humans have enough fucking free time to care about bullshit like throw-pillows, beard trimmers with attachments, and experimental jazz.
I have to acknowledge that the outlier in my hypothetical species-intelligence-model would be bears. Jesus Christ they are dumb. Bears do not understand satire. At all. I heard these two black bears talking once about an article from The Onion, and the one of them goes, "Can you believe this shit about the United Nations? It's outrageous!" and the only reason I didn't point out that it's humor that wouldn't be lost on even the most stoned 19-year-old liberal arts major is that I had a hangover and couldn't run too fast, and didn't feel like being eviscerated. And don't even bother trying to explain McSweeney's lists to them. WASTE OF TIME.
So sure, bears may seem like a food chain/intelligence exception... until you consider the only creatures that will eat bears: Yeah, that's right. Scavenger insects, bacteria, and Ted Nugent. Just sayin'.
The problem with a bug's so-called "personality" is that... well, would you consider it an evolutionary advantage to HAVE a personality when you're basically a plastic clamshell of 7-11 nachos with legs? One whose main focus is scuttling around trying to find a dark corner in which to lay eggs before a skateboarder with the munchies pries you open, ravages your contents, and washes the aftertaste out with a Rockstar? If some little exoskeletal bastard made an effort at self-improvement, he most likely wouldn't get through 15 pages of Swann's Way before having his head gnawed off by a vole. See my point?
At the risk of making a gross overgeneralization, I'm gonna stick my neck out here and say that where your species falls on the Dumbshit Spectrum mostly has to do with your risk of being eaten. Thus making bugs just about the dumbest motherfuckers on earth. But, y'know, at a certain point it's a case of diminishing returns -- which is probably why you humans have enough fucking free time to care about bullshit like throw-pillows, beard trimmers with attachments, and experimental jazz.
I have to acknowledge that the outlier in my hypothetical species-intelligence-model would be bears. Jesus Christ they are dumb. Bears do not understand satire. At all. I heard these two black bears talking once about an article from The Onion, and the one of them goes, "Can you believe this shit about the United Nations? It's outrageous!" and the only reason I didn't point out that it's humor that wouldn't be lost on even the most stoned 19-year-old liberal arts major is that I had a hangover and couldn't run too fast, and didn't feel like being eviscerated. And don't even bother trying to explain McSweeney's lists to them. WASTE OF TIME.
So sure, bears may seem like a food chain/intelligence exception... until you consider the only creatures that will eat bears: Yeah, that's right. Scavenger insects, bacteria, and Ted Nugent. Just sayin'.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
God Bless British Petroleum
Damn. That oil spill made Louisiana go from "party-state" to "fucking epic super-party-state." When BP kicked down the most recent installment of dough, my buddy Harris calls me, and he's like "Get your soggy woodchuck-lovin' ass down here, bro! I am RICH!" I could hear music thumping in the background, and the particular squealing/giggling/splashing that a Man of the World recognizes instantly as a hot-tub full of loose women. "I haven't put pants on in a WEEK!" he shrieked into the cell. "You're a turtle, Harris," I said. "You don't wear pants. And I resent the woodchuck remark. I haven't messed with woodchucks since college." The phone muffled and got dropped; Harris said to someone "Don't bogart, man! Pass that shit..." He got the phone to his face again. "Whatever, dude. Just grab the next plane and follow the trail of bikini bottoms to my place."
Christ's balls, what a couple of weeks. Those Louisiana motherfuckers can party. I woke up at odd hours, sore, dehydrated, greeted by the bleary sight of a revolving cast of tousled bottle-blondes with tramp stamps and food-themed first names. I gave out dozens of fake numbers. (There was one unfortunate scene where some shirtless butter-face chased me around the condo, wielding a barbecue fork after trying unsuccessfully to sext me on a bullshit number. I probably wouldn't have hit my head on the bidet if I hadn't been mesmerized by those wildly swaying funbags...)
The last morning I was there, I was rudely awakened by some hippie broad in a caftan and yoga-pants, trying to put me in a plastic tub to wash me. I scrambled out of the cold bath, shouting "Yo, step off, bitch! If you're gonna massage my junk, you'd best have a stellar rack and lose the handful of Boraxo. For your information, I'm sticky from wrestling in Hershey's syrup with both Olsen twins -- it's not oil."
Helluva vacation. Not sure how I got the small burn-scar on my inner-thigh. It's probably best that I don't remember, because I know at one point I was trying to out-drink a certain former-vice-president, and that guy is one kinky sonofabitch from what I've heard.
Any paternity-related inquiries should be directed to my attorney. Thanks.
Christ's balls, what a couple of weeks. Those Louisiana motherfuckers can party. I woke up at odd hours, sore, dehydrated, greeted by the bleary sight of a revolving cast of tousled bottle-blondes with tramp stamps and food-themed first names. I gave out dozens of fake numbers. (There was one unfortunate scene where some shirtless butter-face chased me around the condo, wielding a barbecue fork after trying unsuccessfully to sext me on a bullshit number. I probably wouldn't have hit my head on the bidet if I hadn't been mesmerized by those wildly swaying funbags...)
The last morning I was there, I was rudely awakened by some hippie broad in a caftan and yoga-pants, trying to put me in a plastic tub to wash me. I scrambled out of the cold bath, shouting "Yo, step off, bitch! If you're gonna massage my junk, you'd best have a stellar rack and lose the handful of Boraxo. For your information, I'm sticky from wrestling in Hershey's syrup with both Olsen twins -- it's not oil."
Helluva vacation. Not sure how I got the small burn-scar on my inner-thigh. It's probably best that I don't remember, because I know at one point I was trying to out-drink a certain former-vice-president, and that guy is one kinky sonofabitch from what I've heard.
Any paternity-related inquiries should be directed to my attorney. Thanks.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Enough with the "marmot" jokes.
The problem with squirrels having gotten so popular with the hipster crowd is that now a lot of them have enough money to do coke. And if there's any animal with a less-well-formed take on philosophy than a squirrel, it's a fucking coked-up squirrel. Mikey, Vince, and Carl... hey, guess what? You're NOT post-structuralists... you're idiots. I know you were just trying to impress those three sorority chipmunks at the corner table, but please... throwing around opinions you obviously got from a Wikipedia article? Spare us.
And for your information, dumbshits, having read a little Turgenev and The Gift of Death (and I skimmed the second half, for chrissakes!) does not make me a nihilist -- OR A MARMOT. Your endless Lebowski-references are as tired as beardy middle-aged dudes at the fucking farmer's market quoting Monty Python. No one thinks you're clever.
I left early because I had to piss in the alley twice on account of you jokers constantly monopolizing the bathroom so you could do rails off the toilet tank... but I'm guessing you all went home alone. Am I wrong? I'll bet you a rolled-up twenty that I'm NOT.
Remember what happened to the pigeons after the hipsters moved on? A goddamned pigeon couldn't get laid on death row with a governor's pardon in its beak these days. Your 15 minutes are about three minutes from OVER.
And for your information, dumbshits, having read a little Turgenev and The Gift of Death (and I skimmed the second half, for chrissakes!) does not make me a nihilist -- OR A MARMOT. Your endless Lebowski-references are as tired as beardy middle-aged dudes at the fucking farmer's market quoting Monty Python. No one thinks you're clever.
I left early because I had to piss in the alley twice on account of you jokers constantly monopolizing the bathroom so you could do rails off the toilet tank... but I'm guessing you all went home alone. Am I wrong? I'll bet you a rolled-up twenty that I'm NOT.
Remember what happened to the pigeons after the hipsters moved on? A goddamned pigeon couldn't get laid on death row with a governor's pardon in its beak these days. Your 15 minutes are about three minutes from OVER.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
*ahem* ...A Point of Clarification
In response to my friend Gary running his fat mouth the other night -- thinking he's so special just because he's a panda and has what passes as "thumbs" -- any dickhead who thinks otters lack the dexterity to hold a glass of scotch is kidding himself. Please. I can dismember shellfish faster, quieter, and more thoroughly than your mom can jack the prescription painkillers from the medicine cabinets of everyone in her book group... you think I need a fucking sippy-cup for my scotch? I WAS DRUNK. That's why I dropped it. Case closed.
I don't think I need to take that kind of bullshit from anyone who belongs to a species so stupid that they need instructional porn and/or artificial insemination to reproduce with even a 30% success rate.
I don't think I need to take that kind of bullshit from anyone who belongs to a species so stupid that they need instructional porn and/or artificial insemination to reproduce with even a 30% success rate.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Top 5 List
Stuff this otter doesn't like:
1) Square drink coasters. That shit is just ridiculous. Coasters should be round, yo.
2) Tank-style vacuum cleaners. Please. I don't care if they supposedly work better. If I wanted to drag something around that is short and clumsy and whines and shrieks loudly but sucks better than its tall willowy counterparts, I'd still be with my ex-girlfriend. I'll stick with the gutless-yet-agile uprights, thanks.
3) Cherry-flavored candy. If God ran one of those family-style restaurants that have old tin signs and farm implements hanging on the walls, I'm pretty sure the urinal cakes in the bathrooms would smell like cherry-flavored candy tastes.
4) Movies about evil children. Look, we already know children are evil. Do they have to rub it in?
5) Keychains that are tiny tool kits. FUCK OFF, MACGYVER.
1) Square drink coasters. That shit is just ridiculous. Coasters should be round, yo.
2) Tank-style vacuum cleaners. Please. I don't care if they supposedly work better. If I wanted to drag something around that is short and clumsy and whines and shrieks loudly but sucks better than its tall willowy counterparts, I'd still be with my ex-girlfriend. I'll stick with the gutless-yet-agile uprights, thanks.
3) Cherry-flavored candy. If God ran one of those family-style restaurants that have old tin signs and farm implements hanging on the walls, I'm pretty sure the urinal cakes in the bathrooms would smell like cherry-flavored candy tastes.
4) Movies about evil children. Look, we already know children are evil. Do they have to rub it in?
5) Keychains that are tiny tool kits. FUCK OFF, MACGYVER.
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