You speciesist bastards probably think "all otters look alike." I'd be offended, but frankly I'm too busy laughing hysterically -- considering that in the absence of clothing and stupid hairdos, humans are about the most embarrassingly generic meat sacks on the planet. Even the help of so-called "fashion" only separates you into about seven categories: suburban church-goers, old people, children, filthy hippies, reality-tv rabble, urban professionals, and the three flavors of young adults (those who wear vintage clothes and think everything is "overrated," those who shop at the mall and fantasize about school shootings, and those who shop at the mall and routinely commit or endure drunken frat-party date-rapes).
At any rate, the one type of creatures who legitimately "all look alike"? That would be garter snakes. Those poor motherfuckers are truly the Wonder Bread of the animal kingdom. Telling them apart -- aside from stripe color -- is like picking out That One Lady in the Denim Jumper at a scrapbooking convention.
Which is why my buddy Steve currently thinks he's a gangsta rapper.
Steve is a garter snake. He has three sorta-bluish stripes. And for most of his life, that's all one could say about him. That fact chafed him more than it did his garter-snake brethren, to say the least. I think maybe he rather romatically felt "oppressed" or something, and translated that into identifying with, say, N.W.A. Because the next thing I knew, Stevo was constantly slithering around talking about how The Man is keeping the garter snakes down. I didn't have the heart to tell him how ridiculous it was, and that his persecution complex was .0001% Rodney King and 99.9999% "middle-class teenager writing shitty vampire poetry."
He got himself some sunglasses and a big dollar-sign necklace (which necessitates a rather odd locomotion, in that he has to keep the leading two inches of himself off the ground when he moves around), and if that wasn't enough to mark him at 20 yards, there was the perpetual beatboxing to clue you in.
I really want to be supportive of Steve and all that... I try to say with a straight face that he is Dope as Shit, and a Straight-Up G. Something about Steve's earnestness won't let me take him down a notch, unlike when Edwin -- who is a possum -- got into rockabilly to an annoying degree and I told him that if I had to hear one more goddamned Reverend Horton Heat song, I would crotch-punch him.
Ah, well. Steve (or MC Stripes, as he's called these days) indisputably always has the best weed now. I'll let it go.