Once, a colony of mice lived in the laboratory of a large, multi-national women's cosmetic company.The mice came in three different colors, white, grey, and brown, and, being alive, rather than noticing the commonalities that brought them together, they noticed differences that separated them, and they all started talking loudly about these differences, often at the same time.
One of the differences they noticed was that they all celebrated different things. The white mice celebrated Listmaus, the mouse day of lists, when mice made lists of various types and lengths and wrapped them around their Listmaus trees, hoping that someone would notice them and provide all the items listed there, or at least make a comment or two about them. The grey mice celebrated Chheesekkahh, which was a relatively minor holiday for the grey mice honoring the frying of blocks of cheese, even when there was not enough oil to properly fry the cheese, and how good the cheese tasted when fried. And, even though Chheesekkahh was a minor holiday for the grey mice, and even though no one, including the grey mice, knew how it was really spelled, a few marketing mice had picked up on the fact that it took place during the same time as Listmaus and they plugged the hell out of it, hoping to sell more T-shirts and trinkets. Finally, the brown mice celebrated Earadon, where they didn't eat any nuts, cheese, peanut butter, or even lick salt from sun-up to sundown, then binged like crazy until the sun came back up, all hoping that their loyalty would make their ears so much more prominent in comparison to their bulimic bodies.
The three colors of mice celebrated their respective holidays for a long time in relative peace, until one day, a particularly angry white mouse decided to stick the biggest Listmaus tree any mouse had ever seen right smack dab in the middle of the maze.
"What are you doing?" asked the brown mice, when they realized that they couldn't even get through the maze because the Listmaus tree was blocking all movement. They knew they had to get through before sun-up or else they couldn't eat the cheese that waited for them at the end.
"I'm putting up a Listmaus tree," said the angry white mouse. "Live with it."
"But we don't believe in Listmaus," said the brown mice, "And we can't get through the maze with that big thing there."
"Whatever," said the white mouse. "I have a right to celebrate how I want when I want, and you can't stop me."
"It is kinda huge," said the other white mice, "And it's blocking our way, too."
The angry white mouse turned on the other white mice. "What? I can't believe you! You are going to let these brown mice whine to the point that you give up your beliefs? You want them to destroy your Listmaus? You want them to chip away at it squeak by squeak?"
"No," said the other white mice, "In fact, we hate these crazy brown mice anyway." And, at that point, all the white mice began to join hands and start singing in front of the Listmaus tree about all of the stuff they hoped would be taken off their lists and rain down on them.
The grey mice listened to this and said, "What if you just move your tree out of the way, so that everyone can get through the maze?"
"What!" said the white mice. "This lab colony was founded on white mice values! And you just want to tear all of this down!"
"Here," said a mouse no one had noticed (because he wasn't actually a mouse, but a rat who worked for marketing disguised as a mouse in order to plant sales ideas virally), "Why don't we just put a piece of fried cheese down next to the Listmaus tree and celebrate Chheesekkahh over here in the dark corner, where you can also buy some Cchheesekkahhh cards and a few Chheeesekkah chocolates, all at a reasonable price, only in smaller quantities, because the total market is smaller."
The grey mice just rolled their eyes.
The brown mice, who were so hungry at this point that they ate the fried cheese, knowing that time was running out to get through the maze before sun-up, said, "That doesn't work. We don't want T-shirts and games. We just want to get through the maze before sun-up so we can celebrate Earadon."
The white mice answered, "And we just want to have the right to enjoy Listmaus wherever we want, in the way that is important to us."
"And the grey mice just want to have the right to celebrate Chhheesekkkahh as they traditionally have for thousands of years," said the marketing rat, "With flashing lights and wrapping paper."
"Actually, we have already celebrated it," said the grey mice, who, used to roadblocks, were looking for an alternate route through the maze that didn't involve pushing past the huge Listmaus tree. But nobody heard them.
"Listmaus!" said the white mice.
"Earadon!" said the brown mice.
"Chhheessekkkahhh!" said the marketing rat.
"LISTMAUS!" yelled the white mice as loud as they could, shaking the Listmaus tree until lists rained down over the entire maze.
"EARADON!" screamed the brown mice, tearing the lists to pieces and eating them in hunger.
"CCHHHHEEESSSEKKKKKAHHHH!" said the marketing rat, who, without his focus groups of hip and edgy grey mice, was not quite sure how to spell it, but sure that there was a market out there for Chheesekkahh cards if only he could get the narrative right.
"LISTMAUS!"
"EARADON!"
"CHHHEEESSEEEKKAHHAHHHAKKAHHAH!"
"LISTMAUS!"
"EARADON!"
"CCCCCHHHEEESEEEEKKKAAAAA-"
And, it was at that moment that a scientist in the lab flooded the entire mouse colony with gallons and gallons of boiling hairspray in order to determine the effects of super-heated hairspray on flesh, killing every mouse of every color in the most painful and gruesome way imaginable, no matter what holiday they celebrated.
Moral: Warning: product is flammable. If heated product come in contact with skin, rinse with cold water, use pressure to stop bleeding, apply ice to welts or swollen areas, and contact your physician immediately. In severe cases, contact local emergency services. Do not ingest heated product. The manufacturer does not recommend heating product and denies all responsibility if product is used in a manner not directed as labeled.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Ducks and the Chickens Who Disagreed
Once, there was a group of Chickens who needed a place to lay their eggs. The Chickens decided to build a new chicken coop, and they thought they found the perfect place, just around the corner from the duck pond. The Pond Zoning Commission decided everything was acceptable, there were no other issues from a legal standpoint and, once the endless study of whether or not that edge of the duck pond was protected wetland finally came to a conclusion (and, to keep everyone happy (or, perhaps, unhappy), it was decided that it was protected wetland, but also fell under a duck pond grandfather clause that allowed chicken coops to be built there, anyhow), then the Chickens proceeded to draw up plans for their new coop.
"Wait a quack quack quackin' minute, here," said the Ducks, when they realized that the Chickens were about to build a chicken coop on the edge of the duck pond. "Excuse me, Chickens, but we don't know who you think you are! This is a DUCK pond, not a CHICKEN pond! You can't build a chicken coop on the edge of a duck pond! This pond has a long and proud history of being a duck pond. In fact, it was founded by ducks, at least after we chased the herons out! This pond has duck values! The children come to the pond to throw bread because of the ducks! It is the ducks that have made this pond great! Now, suddenly, all it takes is for you guys to start waving your peckers around and you turn it into a CHICKEN pond?! Who's the real power behind this pond grab?"
The Chickens turned their heads quickly side to side and scraped their feet in their dirt. "Ain't no one here but us Chickens, Ducks. And we're coming home to roost! We're just trying to build a chicken coop, not take over your flappin' pond! You guys go south for the winter, anyhow, while we're stuck up here, unable to fly with our puny little wings. Don't we at least deserve somewhere to lay during the cold months? This chicken coop has been approved by the Pond Commission, and, unlike you Ducks, who always want to put everything on your bills, we're paying for the construction in cash, which isn't chicken scratch and will help the pond economy. You don't have to be so fowl- it's not like we declared it duck season! We just want to build a crowin' chicken coop, you bunch of silly geese! Don't get your feathers so ruffled!"
"GEESE!" gasped the Ducks. "The nerve of you dumb clucks! The only way you cocks should even be around our duck pond is extra crispy in a bucket! Well, you might have been approved by the Pond Commission, but we're not about to run around here like a chicken with its head cut off! We'll take our case to the residents of the pond, and then you'll see that building in duck territory is not everything it is quacked up to be!"
With that, the Ducks began to squawk on quack radio, spreading the word as to what an outrage it was to build a chicken coop on the edge of a duck pond, and how out of touch with pond values the Pond Zoning Commission was anyway (not to mention the fact that the stupid wetland study was a waste of taxpayer money). And, pretty soon, the issue of the chicken coop began to take up time from real news and get other pond residents upset. The Dragonflies were buzzing about it. The Frogs thought they'd croak before they ever saw a chicken coop built on a duck pond. The Beavers said, "Dam!" The Mosquito's blood began to boil. Even the Fish began to carp and throw barbs from their underwater perches as their anger bubbled to the surface.
The Chickens, not knowing what else to do, began to pray. "Dear Chicken God, please help us to cover these obnoxious Ducks in orange sauce and serve them up with a side of potatoes so that we may build our chicken coop. Are these ducks blind or have they just quacked up?"
The Ducks, who figured the Chickens were praying, also began to pray, but did it even louder. "Dear Duck God, please deliver these Chickens to the great Colonel Saunders so that he may bread and fry them and offer them up as Tuesday dinner special, or, even better, humiliate them by shoving bacon and cheese between their breasts. We would be egg-static if you would listen to our cries egg-hen!"
Knowing that the Ducks were praying, the Chickens tried to pray louder still, practically crowing at the top of their combs. "Dear Chicken God, please allow an oil company to begin to deep water drill in this duck pond, so that the pond becomes so polluted with oil spill that the Ducks have no choice but to change their names to "Foie gras" and "Pate". We have had to listen to their stupid Duck calls and know that they are really nothing but a bunch of loons!"
And the Ducks, who had had a lot of practice being shrill on quack radio, started to honk and quack so loud that even the bullfrogs decided to move to another pond to get away from it. "Dear Duck God, please, please knock the nuggets off of these Foghorn Leghorn wannabes so that they understand we are not just playing chicken here, but intend to duck and cover while using all of our resources, including the World Wide Webbed-feet, to fight this Chicken menace! We do not want to hear a single peep out of these pointy-beaked chicks!"
Finally, God, sick to death of all the clucking and quacking and crowing and squawking, not to mention the bad puns, sent a Crane down to the pond. Immediately, the Crane began to eat all of the crazy Chickens and angry Ducks, scooping them up in his bill and swallowing them whole, even without any dipping sauce.
"WAIT!" cried the Chickens, as they were gulped up by the Crane. "What is going on here? We didn't even know that a crane would eat other birds! All we wanted was for the Ducks to be gone from the pond, and now we're all being swallowed alive?"
"That's right!" screamed the Ducks, as they disappeared down the Crane's beak and into his swelling belly. "Cranes eat frogs, not Ducks and Chickens! This is ridiculous! Besides, we asked for help in getting rid of these Chickens, and, instead, this is what happens? Now we're up the creek without our paddle!"
But God just smiled and the Crane continued eating until every Duck and every Chicken was gone from the pond and the place returned to some sense of quiet and normalcy. (Well, except for the Crane, who had a terrible stomach ache after eating two entire populations and spent the next three days vomiting and having diarrhea.)
Moral: Don't complain about a zoning issue to a vengeful and mysterious God.
"Wait a quack quack quackin' minute, here," said the Ducks, when they realized that the Chickens were about to build a chicken coop on the edge of the duck pond. "Excuse me, Chickens, but we don't know who you think you are! This is a DUCK pond, not a CHICKEN pond! You can't build a chicken coop on the edge of a duck pond! This pond has a long and proud history of being a duck pond. In fact, it was founded by ducks, at least after we chased the herons out! This pond has duck values! The children come to the pond to throw bread because of the ducks! It is the ducks that have made this pond great! Now, suddenly, all it takes is for you guys to start waving your peckers around and you turn it into a CHICKEN pond?! Who's the real power behind this pond grab?"
The Chickens turned their heads quickly side to side and scraped their feet in their dirt. "Ain't no one here but us Chickens, Ducks. And we're coming home to roost! We're just trying to build a chicken coop, not take over your flappin' pond! You guys go south for the winter, anyhow, while we're stuck up here, unable to fly with our puny little wings. Don't we at least deserve somewhere to lay during the cold months? This chicken coop has been approved by the Pond Commission, and, unlike you Ducks, who always want to put everything on your bills, we're paying for the construction in cash, which isn't chicken scratch and will help the pond economy. You don't have to be so fowl- it's not like we declared it duck season! We just want to build a crowin' chicken coop, you bunch of silly geese! Don't get your feathers so ruffled!"
"GEESE!" gasped the Ducks. "The nerve of you dumb clucks! The only way you cocks should even be around our duck pond is extra crispy in a bucket! Well, you might have been approved by the Pond Commission, but we're not about to run around here like a chicken with its head cut off! We'll take our case to the residents of the pond, and then you'll see that building in duck territory is not everything it is quacked up to be!"
With that, the Ducks began to squawk on quack radio, spreading the word as to what an outrage it was to build a chicken coop on the edge of a duck pond, and how out of touch with pond values the Pond Zoning Commission was anyway (not to mention the fact that the stupid wetland study was a waste of taxpayer money). And, pretty soon, the issue of the chicken coop began to take up time from real news and get other pond residents upset. The Dragonflies were buzzing about it. The Frogs thought they'd croak before they ever saw a chicken coop built on a duck pond. The Beavers said, "Dam!" The Mosquito's blood began to boil. Even the Fish began to carp and throw barbs from their underwater perches as their anger bubbled to the surface.
The Chickens, not knowing what else to do, began to pray. "Dear Chicken God, please help us to cover these obnoxious Ducks in orange sauce and serve them up with a side of potatoes so that we may build our chicken coop. Are these ducks blind or have they just quacked up?"
The Ducks, who figured the Chickens were praying, also began to pray, but did it even louder. "Dear Duck God, please deliver these Chickens to the great Colonel Saunders so that he may bread and fry them and offer them up as Tuesday dinner special, or, even better, humiliate them by shoving bacon and cheese between their breasts. We would be egg-static if you would listen to our cries egg-hen!"
Knowing that the Ducks were praying, the Chickens tried to pray louder still, practically crowing at the top of their combs. "Dear Chicken God, please allow an oil company to begin to deep water drill in this duck pond, so that the pond becomes so polluted with oil spill that the Ducks have no choice but to change their names to "Foie gras" and "Pate". We have had to listen to their stupid Duck calls and know that they are really nothing but a bunch of loons!"
And the Ducks, who had had a lot of practice being shrill on quack radio, started to honk and quack so loud that even the bullfrogs decided to move to another pond to get away from it. "Dear Duck God, please, please knock the nuggets off of these Foghorn Leghorn wannabes so that they understand we are not just playing chicken here, but intend to duck and cover while using all of our resources, including the World Wide Webbed-feet, to fight this Chicken menace! We do not want to hear a single peep out of these pointy-beaked chicks!"
Finally, God, sick to death of all the clucking and quacking and crowing and squawking, not to mention the bad puns, sent a Crane down to the pond. Immediately, the Crane began to eat all of the crazy Chickens and angry Ducks, scooping them up in his bill and swallowing them whole, even without any dipping sauce.
"WAIT!" cried the Chickens, as they were gulped up by the Crane. "What is going on here? We didn't even know that a crane would eat other birds! All we wanted was for the Ducks to be gone from the pond, and now we're all being swallowed alive?"
"That's right!" screamed the Ducks, as they disappeared down the Crane's beak and into his swelling belly. "Cranes eat frogs, not Ducks and Chickens! This is ridiculous! Besides, we asked for help in getting rid of these Chickens, and, instead, this is what happens? Now we're up the creek without our paddle!"
But God just smiled and the Crane continued eating until every Duck and every Chicken was gone from the pond and the place returned to some sense of quiet and normalcy. (Well, except for the Crane, who had a terrible stomach ache after eating two entire populations and spent the next three days vomiting and having diarrhea.)
Moral: Don't complain about a zoning issue to a vengeful and mysterious God.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The Rabbit and the Cicadas
Once, there was a young Rabbit who was just fine. She did a nice job in about everything she tried and was relatively peaceful and happy with her life. Of course, she had some nagging doubts just forming in the back of her head, even as a young Rabbit, but nothing that stopped her from learning and playing with friends and eating right. The Rabbit looked to be growing up healthy and happy. However, she had some disposable income (an annuity left to her by her grandfather before he was run over by a lawnmower).
This disposable income attracted some Cicadas who worked in advertising, and they began to buzz around her all the time. "Pssst, hey, Rabbit..." said the Cicadas, "Don't you realize that the toys you play with aren't as good as the toys the Rabbits over in the meadow play with? You have some, that's right, but they have the latest and greatest, the state-of-the-art, the "eliminate those nagging doubts about yourself that are already forming in the back of your head" kinda toys..."
"Really," said the Rabbit, who, because the Cicadas' buzzing was so constant, didn't even question it. The Rabbit looked around at her toys, then looked at the toys of the Rabbits in the meadow, and nodded her head (which was filling with even more doubts now). "You know, Cicadas, I think you are right. Those Rabbits in the meadow that you are showing me do have better toys and they sure do seem happier. What can I do about that?"
"Well, you see," said the Cicadas, "We're glad you asked that, because, over here, we can show you a store where you can BUY the toys that will make you feel better..."
So the just-fine Rabbit bought the toys that the Cicadas suggested and, for a few minutes, she really did feel better about herself. But, after a few of the toys broke, and a few more got lost, and the few that were left began to get boring (because, you see, the Rabbits in the meadows were playing with even newer toys that were even better at this point), the Rabbit suddenly didn't feel so good anymore. In fact, looking at her pile of accumulated, discarded, broken stuff, she actually felt worse.
"Ooooooh," the Cicadas sympathized, "Oooooooh, poor thing, poor thing. It is good that we know exactly what you need. You see, you are too old for toys now. That's why you're not happy. You really need a boyfriend, that's what you need. But, looking at your appearance, well...we don't want to say you are plain, but let's just say that you aren't going to attract the happiness-inducing boyfriend that you want looking like that."
The Rabbit furrowed her brow. "But I thought I always looked okay?"
The Cicadas shook their wings and buzzed and buzzed and buzzed. "Oh, yes, yes, yes. You do look okay. But okay isn't the way to attract that top-notch boyfriend who will really make you happy. No way, no way. You need to look STUNNING. Look at those Rabbits in the meadow. Look how thin they are, and how pretty...how perfect their make-up is and how well-groomed their ears are and how fluffy their tails are. You see, that is the way to attract a boyfriend."
The Rabbit still wasn't sure, but, looking at the Rabbits in the meadow, and seeing how happy they looked, she said, "Alright, how do I end up looking like those Rabbits in the meadow?"
"Funny you should ask us," said the Cicadas, "Because we know a store right over here that you can buy all the stuff you need to look beautiful and attract a top-shelf, front-of-the-line boyfriend..."
So the Rabbit bought all the stuff the Cicadas said and slopped it on her face and combed it into her ears and rubbed it all around her fur and even under her tail (because the famous Rabbit on the interview show, who was actually employed by the Cicadas, said that 'smelly under-tail' was the Number 1 turn-off for Rabbit boyfriends) and, when she was done, she felt kind of foolish and uncomfortable, but she then went out to the edges of the meadow to try and attract a boyfriend. And, night after night after night, which she used to spend reading and writing letters and enjoying the dusk, she now spent with other female Rabbits, lurking around at the edge of the meadow, waiting for that perfect boyfriend that the Cicadas had promised. And, ultimately, after a few false starts, she found a boyfriend, only he wasn't as perfect as the Cicadas had promised. He was lazy and he ate too many greens and didn't seem to have the social skills exhibited by the boyfriends of the meadow Rabbits. Ultimately, though, he was a boyfriend, so the Rabbit accepted him, even though he didn't really make her feel as good as the Cicadas had promised, especially compared to reading and writing letters and enjoying the dusk. But the meadow Rabbits did none of these things and they were truly happy, so neither did the just-fine Rabbit, anymore.
As time passed with the just-passable boyfriend, the Rabbit, now feeling pretty low, found herself expecting a litter and, under pressure from her Rabbit parents (who, like most Rabbits, were timid and conservative, always sniffing their noses in the air and preparing to run away from strange things while passing judgement on all those around them), the Rabbit married her boyfriend. And, after a long 31 days of feeling fat and being nauseated and not being able to find a comfortable place to lie, the Rabbit had her own bouncing baby 14 rabbits. Of course, between 14 babies, some postpartum depression, and a few dollars left in her grandfather's annuity, it was the perfect combination to attract the Cicadas.
"Hello, Friend Rabbit!" chirped the Cicadas. "You are looking...well."
The Rabbit, who was now filled with self-doubt and overwhelmed by the crying of 14 babies, especially since she only had 6 nipples, snapped at the Cicadas, "What does THAT mean?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing," said the Cicadas, who were smooth talkers if nothing else. "Nothing at all. We were just admiring how nice you look with all the beauty products that have attracted that top-shelf husband of yours."
"Well, he said the other day I was fat," said the Rabbit, "And I don't feel too beautiful. And now I have all these babies and I don't know what to do with them." She lifted her hopeful Rabbit eyes up to the Cicadas, "What would those beautiful Rabbits in the meadow do about all this?"
The Cicadas nodded their heads and buzzed and buzzed and buzzed (and the junior partner in the back shed his skin). "Are you sure you want to know?"
"Yes," answered the Rabbit.
"Sure?"
"Yes, yes!" pleaded the Rabbit.
"Well, in that case..." and the Cicadas got out their big guns, a laser-focused targeted marketing multi-media totally immersive sensory assault. They told the Rabbit about the perfect food for her babies ("Much better than that old fashioned breast milk YOU'RE using!"), about the perfect learning toys and books for her babies, about the cutest clothes that would make her babies the most attractive and get them into the best lepus colleges, if not get them modeling careers outright and make them rich without even raising a finger. They told her about various investment plans and insurance schemes and other places where she could hand over her money in order to ensure her babies the best life in perpetuity ("Didn't your own grandfather do that for YOU? Didn't he care enough to do that for YOU?"). But wait, said the Cicadas, don't forget yourself! Pamper yourself with this shampoo and that bubble bath and this facial mask and that whitening toothpaste. And make sure you are dressed in the latest Rabbit fashions ("You know, just because you are older and have 14 little ones, it doesn't mean you can't look your best") ("Or even hire one of our insured and certified professional Fox babysitters to watch your precious cargo while you make a trip to the edge of the meadow, for Girl's Night Out or for Old Time's Sake or for Just No Reason At All Other Than You Deserve It!"). And, of course, she would want her home to look the best it can, with all the best furniture, which happened to be on sale, and all the best appliances, which also happened to be on sale, and, when she was sick of the way her home looked, why, paint and rugs and wall treatments and lamps were also all on sale! In fact, maybe she should just ditch that stupid starter hole she was living in and live nearer the meadow in a brand-new, newly-dug hole, complete with 15 different bedrooms and carrots growing RIGHT THROUGH THE CEILING! And the Cicadas hadn't even begun to talk about vehicles, since the Rabbit needed something roomy enough for her brood yet stylish enough to show who she REALLY was ("In fact, maybe you should consider TWO vehicles--one for those soccer games and one for those visits to the edge of the meadow. Just because you're a mom now doesn't mean you have to sacrifice anything or give anything up for your kids! You DESERVE to be the beautiful Rabbit you really are. Plus, and we really didn't want to say anything, but do you think those glamorous Rabbits in the meadow really drive a minivan?...")
And, when all was said and done, Rabbit bought everything the Cicadas showed her, one thing after another, each one making her feel good for a second, but, then, after it wore off, leaving her with a still-empty feeling, which the Cicadas were more than happy to address by showing her yet-again something newer and more improved. And the Rabbit just continued to buy and buy and buy, because the Cicadas, in their buzzing, promised that this one would make her happier and that one would make her even happier and this one would make her so gosh-durn happy that her face would crack. And, meanwhile, her husband took up with one of the loose hares from the forest who would flash her tail to every Jack she saw, and the bank foreclosed on their edge-of-the-meadow, "Everyday Easter" model new-build hole, leaving the Rabbit family living under a log, which allowed hawks and badgers to pick off the babies one by one. Finally, in a desperate attempt to bring some kind of meaning to her life, the Rabbit followed the Cicadas' advice and hired the Fox Babysitting Service (motto: "We Make Sure Your Little Ones Are Warm and Well-Fed") to watch the remaining babies while she went to the edge of the meadow. Of course, no one paid attention to her at all, despite the new dress and the plastered on make-up, until the closing of the bars, when a particularly greasy weasel slid up to her side and offered to show her his weasel etchings. Because this is a family fable, we will not describe the degradation and humiliation that took place back at the weasel's lair, but, when the Rabbit, ashamed and miserable, returned to her under-log, she realized that all of her remaining babies, as well as the Fox Babysitting Service, were mysteriously gone. She couldn't call and report this to the authorities, because her phone had been disconnected weeks before, and, when she asked a government official for help, they said it would be at least 6 to 8 months before they could respond, since there were so many complaints against this particular Fox Babysitting Service involving missing Rabbit babies (and a few missing Chicken eggs, to boot).
As she lied under the log, crying, the Cicadas began to buzz again.
"Help me, Cicadas," said the Rabbit, who didn't even realize that, because of their previous help, she was now a long way from fine. All she heard was their constant buzzing and the pounding in her head. "Please help me to feel better, like I did back in the day before I met you."
"Oh, okay, we have just the thing," said the Cicadas. "It sure sounds like you need to ask your doctor about clinical depression, because that's what all the happy Rabbits in the meadow did and, now, look at them. Look at how happy they are and how often they go kayaking and eat cotton candy at the county fair and take walks on hillsides in the autumn. And, when you let your doctor know that we diagnosed you as clinically depressed, ask him about Carrotrol, a Shedding-Plow Laboratory product, the little orange pill that will make you happy with one swallow. Happiness is just a gulp away! Of course, let your doctor know if you experience any of these rare, oh so rare, rare, rare, rare side effects along with your unbridled joy, including incontinence, water retention, fur loss, ear droop, heart flutter, uncontrollable sobbing, thoughts of wolves, inability to lick paws, unexplained tastes of elderberries, increase in number of feces pellets, brain damage, growth of a penis followed by an erection that lasts long than three years, blood coming from the eyes, blood coming from the pores, blood coming from any other orifices not named, liver failure, kidney failure, fallen arches, neck pain, spinal column explosion, thoughts of owls, obsessive-compulsive disorder, compulsive-obsessive disorder, unexplained tooth growth, hyperactivity, lethargy, hyperactive-lethargy, chicken vocalization, leg cramps-"
"Fine, fine," said the Rabbit who used to be fine, "I'll take it. But I don't have any money left. The annuity is gone. Now that my kids have disappeared, my ex- doesn't pay child support. I felt too bad to fill out the paperwork for continued disability, and I never went to school and have no job-related skills. The money is completely gone."
The Cicadas all suddenly quit buzzing in unison. "What?"
"The money is all gone."
"But you have insurance, right?"
"No," answered the Rabbit. "But I really need that Carrotrol, a Shedding-Plow Laboratory Product, because, after all of this, I really need to be happy again."
"Mmmmm," said the Cicadas, "It looks like you may no longer be within our target demographic."
And, with that, the Cicadas flew away, leaving the Rabbit alone, under her shabby log.
Moral: Please help make the world a better place and click the sponsored links in the Sidebar! Thanks!
This disposable income attracted some Cicadas who worked in advertising, and they began to buzz around her all the time. "Pssst, hey, Rabbit..." said the Cicadas, "Don't you realize that the toys you play with aren't as good as the toys the Rabbits over in the meadow play with? You have some, that's right, but they have the latest and greatest, the state-of-the-art, the "eliminate those nagging doubts about yourself that are already forming in the back of your head" kinda toys..."
"Really," said the Rabbit, who, because the Cicadas' buzzing was so constant, didn't even question it. The Rabbit looked around at her toys, then looked at the toys of the Rabbits in the meadow, and nodded her head (which was filling with even more doubts now). "You know, Cicadas, I think you are right. Those Rabbits in the meadow that you are showing me do have better toys and they sure do seem happier. What can I do about that?"
"Well, you see," said the Cicadas, "We're glad you asked that, because, over here, we can show you a store where you can BUY the toys that will make you feel better..."
So the just-fine Rabbit bought the toys that the Cicadas suggested and, for a few minutes, she really did feel better about herself. But, after a few of the toys broke, and a few more got lost, and the few that were left began to get boring (because, you see, the Rabbits in the meadows were playing with even newer toys that were even better at this point), the Rabbit suddenly didn't feel so good anymore. In fact, looking at her pile of accumulated, discarded, broken stuff, she actually felt worse.
"Ooooooh," the Cicadas sympathized, "Oooooooh, poor thing, poor thing. It is good that we know exactly what you need. You see, you are too old for toys now. That's why you're not happy. You really need a boyfriend, that's what you need. But, looking at your appearance, well...we don't want to say you are plain, but let's just say that you aren't going to attract the happiness-inducing boyfriend that you want looking like that."
The Rabbit furrowed her brow. "But I thought I always looked okay?"
The Cicadas shook their wings and buzzed and buzzed and buzzed. "Oh, yes, yes, yes. You do look okay. But okay isn't the way to attract that top-notch boyfriend who will really make you happy. No way, no way. You need to look STUNNING. Look at those Rabbits in the meadow. Look how thin they are, and how pretty...how perfect their make-up is and how well-groomed their ears are and how fluffy their tails are. You see, that is the way to attract a boyfriend."
The Rabbit still wasn't sure, but, looking at the Rabbits in the meadow, and seeing how happy they looked, she said, "Alright, how do I end up looking like those Rabbits in the meadow?"
"Funny you should ask us," said the Cicadas, "Because we know a store right over here that you can buy all the stuff you need to look beautiful and attract a top-shelf, front-of-the-line boyfriend..."
So the Rabbit bought all the stuff the Cicadas said and slopped it on her face and combed it into her ears and rubbed it all around her fur and even under her tail (because the famous Rabbit on the interview show, who was actually employed by the Cicadas, said that 'smelly under-tail' was the Number 1 turn-off for Rabbit boyfriends) and, when she was done, she felt kind of foolish and uncomfortable, but she then went out to the edges of the meadow to try and attract a boyfriend. And, night after night after night, which she used to spend reading and writing letters and enjoying the dusk, she now spent with other female Rabbits, lurking around at the edge of the meadow, waiting for that perfect boyfriend that the Cicadas had promised. And, ultimately, after a few false starts, she found a boyfriend, only he wasn't as perfect as the Cicadas had promised. He was lazy and he ate too many greens and didn't seem to have the social skills exhibited by the boyfriends of the meadow Rabbits. Ultimately, though, he was a boyfriend, so the Rabbit accepted him, even though he didn't really make her feel as good as the Cicadas had promised, especially compared to reading and writing letters and enjoying the dusk. But the meadow Rabbits did none of these things and they were truly happy, so neither did the just-fine Rabbit, anymore.
As time passed with the just-passable boyfriend, the Rabbit, now feeling pretty low, found herself expecting a litter and, under pressure from her Rabbit parents (who, like most Rabbits, were timid and conservative, always sniffing their noses in the air and preparing to run away from strange things while passing judgement on all those around them), the Rabbit married her boyfriend. And, after a long 31 days of feeling fat and being nauseated and not being able to find a comfortable place to lie, the Rabbit had her own bouncing baby 14 rabbits. Of course, between 14 babies, some postpartum depression, and a few dollars left in her grandfather's annuity, it was the perfect combination to attract the Cicadas.
"Hello, Friend Rabbit!" chirped the Cicadas. "You are looking...well."
The Rabbit, who was now filled with self-doubt and overwhelmed by the crying of 14 babies, especially since she only had 6 nipples, snapped at the Cicadas, "What does THAT mean?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing," said the Cicadas, who were smooth talkers if nothing else. "Nothing at all. We were just admiring how nice you look with all the beauty products that have attracted that top-shelf husband of yours."
"Well, he said the other day I was fat," said the Rabbit, "And I don't feel too beautiful. And now I have all these babies and I don't know what to do with them." She lifted her hopeful Rabbit eyes up to the Cicadas, "What would those beautiful Rabbits in the meadow do about all this?"
The Cicadas nodded their heads and buzzed and buzzed and buzzed (and the junior partner in the back shed his skin). "Are you sure you want to know?"
"Yes," answered the Rabbit.
"Sure?"
"Yes, yes!" pleaded the Rabbit.
"Well, in that case..." and the Cicadas got out their big guns, a laser-focused targeted marketing multi-media totally immersive sensory assault. They told the Rabbit about the perfect food for her babies ("Much better than that old fashioned breast milk YOU'RE using!"), about the perfect learning toys and books for her babies, about the cutest clothes that would make her babies the most attractive and get them into the best lepus colleges, if not get them modeling careers outright and make them rich without even raising a finger. They told her about various investment plans and insurance schemes and other places where she could hand over her money in order to ensure her babies the best life in perpetuity ("Didn't your own grandfather do that for YOU? Didn't he care enough to do that for YOU?"). But wait, said the Cicadas, don't forget yourself! Pamper yourself with this shampoo and that bubble bath and this facial mask and that whitening toothpaste. And make sure you are dressed in the latest Rabbit fashions ("You know, just because you are older and have 14 little ones, it doesn't mean you can't look your best") ("Or even hire one of our insured and certified professional Fox babysitters to watch your precious cargo while you make a trip to the edge of the meadow, for Girl's Night Out or for Old Time's Sake or for Just No Reason At All Other Than You Deserve It!"). And, of course, she would want her home to look the best it can, with all the best furniture, which happened to be on sale, and all the best appliances, which also happened to be on sale, and, when she was sick of the way her home looked, why, paint and rugs and wall treatments and lamps were also all on sale! In fact, maybe she should just ditch that stupid starter hole she was living in and live nearer the meadow in a brand-new, newly-dug hole, complete with 15 different bedrooms and carrots growing RIGHT THROUGH THE CEILING! And the Cicadas hadn't even begun to talk about vehicles, since the Rabbit needed something roomy enough for her brood yet stylish enough to show who she REALLY was ("In fact, maybe you should consider TWO vehicles--one for those soccer games and one for those visits to the edge of the meadow. Just because you're a mom now doesn't mean you have to sacrifice anything or give anything up for your kids! You DESERVE to be the beautiful Rabbit you really are. Plus, and we really didn't want to say anything, but do you think those glamorous Rabbits in the meadow really drive a minivan?...")
And, when all was said and done, Rabbit bought everything the Cicadas showed her, one thing after another, each one making her feel good for a second, but, then, after it wore off, leaving her with a still-empty feeling, which the Cicadas were more than happy to address by showing her yet-again something newer and more improved. And the Rabbit just continued to buy and buy and buy, because the Cicadas, in their buzzing, promised that this one would make her happier and that one would make her even happier and this one would make her so gosh-durn happy that her face would crack. And, meanwhile, her husband took up with one of the loose hares from the forest who would flash her tail to every Jack she saw, and the bank foreclosed on their edge-of-the-meadow, "Everyday Easter" model new-build hole, leaving the Rabbit family living under a log, which allowed hawks and badgers to pick off the babies one by one. Finally, in a desperate attempt to bring some kind of meaning to her life, the Rabbit followed the Cicadas' advice and hired the Fox Babysitting Service (motto: "We Make Sure Your Little Ones Are Warm and Well-Fed") to watch the remaining babies while she went to the edge of the meadow. Of course, no one paid attention to her at all, despite the new dress and the plastered on make-up, until the closing of the bars, when a particularly greasy weasel slid up to her side and offered to show her his weasel etchings. Because this is a family fable, we will not describe the degradation and humiliation that took place back at the weasel's lair, but, when the Rabbit, ashamed and miserable, returned to her under-log, she realized that all of her remaining babies, as well as the Fox Babysitting Service, were mysteriously gone. She couldn't call and report this to the authorities, because her phone had been disconnected weeks before, and, when she asked a government official for help, they said it would be at least 6 to 8 months before they could respond, since there were so many complaints against this particular Fox Babysitting Service involving missing Rabbit babies (and a few missing Chicken eggs, to boot).
As she lied under the log, crying, the Cicadas began to buzz again.
"Help me, Cicadas," said the Rabbit, who didn't even realize that, because of their previous help, she was now a long way from fine. All she heard was their constant buzzing and the pounding in her head. "Please help me to feel better, like I did back in the day before I met you."
"Oh, okay, we have just the thing," said the Cicadas. "It sure sounds like you need to ask your doctor about clinical depression, because that's what all the happy Rabbits in the meadow did and, now, look at them. Look at how happy they are and how often they go kayaking and eat cotton candy at the county fair and take walks on hillsides in the autumn. And, when you let your doctor know that we diagnosed you as clinically depressed, ask him about Carrotrol, a Shedding-Plow Laboratory product, the little orange pill that will make you happy with one swallow. Happiness is just a gulp away! Of course, let your doctor know if you experience any of these rare, oh so rare, rare, rare, rare side effects along with your unbridled joy, including incontinence, water retention, fur loss, ear droop, heart flutter, uncontrollable sobbing, thoughts of wolves, inability to lick paws, unexplained tastes of elderberries, increase in number of feces pellets, brain damage, growth of a penis followed by an erection that lasts long than three years, blood coming from the eyes, blood coming from the pores, blood coming from any other orifices not named, liver failure, kidney failure, fallen arches, neck pain, spinal column explosion, thoughts of owls, obsessive-compulsive disorder, compulsive-obsessive disorder, unexplained tooth growth, hyperactivity, lethargy, hyperactive-lethargy, chicken vocalization, leg cramps-"
"Fine, fine," said the Rabbit who used to be fine, "I'll take it. But I don't have any money left. The annuity is gone. Now that my kids have disappeared, my ex- doesn't pay child support. I felt too bad to fill out the paperwork for continued disability, and I never went to school and have no job-related skills. The money is completely gone."
The Cicadas all suddenly quit buzzing in unison. "What?"
"The money is all gone."
"But you have insurance, right?"
"No," answered the Rabbit. "But I really need that Carrotrol, a Shedding-Plow Laboratory Product, because, after all of this, I really need to be happy again."
"Mmmmm," said the Cicadas, "It looks like you may no longer be within our target demographic."
And, with that, the Cicadas flew away, leaving the Rabbit alone, under her shabby log.
Moral: Please help make the world a better place and click the sponsored links in the Sidebar! Thanks!
Saturday, August 7, 2010
The Little Old Lady Who Loved Dolphins, Hummingbirds, Unicorns, and Bears
Once, in case you haven't read the title, there was a little old lady who loved dolphins, hummingbirds, unicorns, and bears. "Oh, they are just sooooo wittle and soooo cute!" she would say to herself (while eating dog food so that she could afford prescription medicine and happy that her phone had been turned off so that she couldn't get the calls from the bank telling her her mortgage was three months past due), "Oh, I just wuv them so, so much!" In fact, the little old lady loved dolphins, hummingbirds, unicorns, and bears so much that she had pillows with them embroidered across the top and suncatchers of them in every window and framed pictures of ripped-out magazine pages containing pictures of dolphins, hummingbirds, unicorns, and bears. No matter what else went wrong in the world, the little old lady could sit happily and look at the beautiful images of dolphins, hummingbirds, unicorns, and bears that she had used to fill her otherwise drab and empty house. These animals made her happy.
One beautiful sunny day, the little old lady went out for a walk in the woods, enjoying the warm weather and fresh air, when she stumbled upon a quiet and sun-dappled glade. Coincidentally, this was the very same day and location that Dolphin, Hummingbird, Unicorn, and Bear gathered for their weekly poker game. The little old lady's heart began to flutter as she saw all of her favorite animals gathered together, focused intently on playing cards. "Oh," gasped the little old lady, "This is my magical dream! All the wittlest and cutest animals gathered together for a sunny and funny game of cards!"
The animals, however, were angry at this interruption of their very high-stakes and long-running poker game. They came out to the middle of the woods to get away from the squawking voices around them, not hear more. Angry, Dolphin took the cigarette out of his mouth and cocked his long snout over his shoulder. "Lady, can you keep it down, here? We're tryin' ta play cards!"
"Oh, Dolphin!" the little old lady squealed. "You are just the squeakiest-voiced picture of magic and peace! I am so happy to meet you!"
The Dolphin snorted polluted salt-water out of his blowhole (causing all the other animals at the poker game to cover their eyes and Unicorn to shoot him the finger). "Lady, you don't know a damn thing about dolphins, do you? We are highly intelligent, however we use this intelligence to torment each other and the animals around us. We kill porpoises for fun, then play with the mangled corpses for no reason other than to get our rocks off. We murder our own offspring with no regards to the propagation of species. Several of us males will gang up on a female, swim her to exhaustion while we engage in homosexual stimulation with each other, then rape her repeatedly, sometimes keeping her captive and repeating this horror show for weeks at a time. And we are so sexually aggressive that we will even attempt to rape humans that swim in our waters, sometimes even killing other humans we see as rivals. In short, we, as a species, are homicidal, psychopathic rapists. Nice talkin' atcha!"
"Oh," the little old lady said, fanning herself, her eyes wide. "Well, maybe I should throw away that "Mystical Dolphin" calendar I got last year. But, at least I still have the beauty and purity of you, Hummingbird!"
"You talkin' to me?" Hummingbird responded, fluttering his wings so fast that he scattered cards (including two he had been holding in his pocket) all over the forest floor. "I said, YOU TALKIN' TO ME, LADY! What is it that you find so amusing about me? Do I amuse you? Am I a clown to you? I mean, really--we hummingbirds are one of the most aggressive species on Earth. We have almost no social skills. We kill each other with our long and razor-tipped beaks as quick as you can say, "Nectar-ream!" and, if we were just a little bigger, we'd attack your ass, too. There is no use in the hummingbird world for other hummingbirds, unless, like our dolphin friends, it is in raping the female of our species. We are compulsively hyperactive and, because of our insane metabolism, we must eat constantly, and I mean CONSTANTLY, stealing food from any bird or bee that comes down the pike. And what goes in must come out, ya know, so we are almost constantly, and I mean CONSTANTLY, dripping urine and feces. That liquid splattering you as you watch us tear into our sources of sugar ain't the mist of happiness, toots, knowwhatamean?"
"Well," the little old lady gulped, a single tear running down her cheek five or six times out of each eye. "I, uh, don't know what to say, Hummingbird. I guess, at least, I still have the purity of the Unicorn to hold my faith in the animal kingdom and give me some comfort in the form of resin tchotchkes as I move through a dark and difficult life."
"Dat's MISTER Unicorn to you, Granny," said the Unicorn as he spit a glob of phlegm onto the forest carpet. "And, come on, really? You are going to put your faith, love, and ideas of peace on ME? A horse with a phallic symbol on its forehead? Yeah, let's just ignore the fact that I don't friggin' exist, okay? That there is no real animal that is actually pure and amazing enough, so I had to be invented? Let's ignore that. Instead, let's focus on the fact that, pre- my-hijacking-by-Christianity, I was a goat with a horn on my head and a crazy bushy tail. A friggin' goat, the animal symbol of sexual depravity. So then, lose the goat, turn me into a horse. All happiness and rainbows, now, right? Not so fast, dusty drawers. According to everyone from the Egyptians to the Greeks to the Bible, I'm the symbol of untamed strength and raw, human destroying power. And how can you tame me? Well, by sending a virgin into the woods to find me. Me, a horse (and check the motion of a woman riding a horse, see what that reminds you of), with an erection sticking out of my forehead, out in the woods all night with a virgin? Heh, heh, heh...might as well swim with the dolphins, babies. Which, of course, brings me around to the fact that, being a friggin' MADE-UP CREATURE, in order to get my magical healing horn, people had to lie and kill all kinds of other endangered species in my name, from the rhinoceros to the narwhal. Ouch, boys, too bad you were so horny! Seriously, though, thanks for the bony protrusion, and I'll be off spending time with your virgins."
"Oh dear," the little old lady moaned softy, "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear..."
"HA!" laughed the Hummingbird, "Please! Don't even get me started on the habits of the deer in this forest..."
"But what about you, Mister Bear?" the old lady asked hopefully, "Surely you won't dash my animal kingdom, plastic knick-knack hopes and dreams? Surely you are as cute and kind and pure and noble as your marketed image suggests? Surely there is some benefit to ascribing cartoon-like human ideals on various wild animals?"
Bear looked around the table at Dolphin, who nodded, then Hummingbird, who may have also nodded, but it was difficult to tell because he was darting around so fast, then to Unicorn, who also nodded, causing everyone else to duck under the table until he was finished. Then, without saying a word, Bear laid down his cards (he actually was holding three Queens), and slowly, silently, pushed away from the table and rose to his full height of over nine feet. He sighed, shook his head enormous head, scratched the side of his face with his four-inch long claws, and looked across the sun-dappled glade. At the edge of the forest, he saw the little old lady quietly calculating how much unicorn placemats and hummingbird fan pulls and dolphin hand towels would go for on eBay. The bear did some quick estimation and, with surprising power, he pounced and bounded across the clearing. Within seconds, he began to rip the little old lady apart limb by limb and eat her alive, shaking her broken body in his locked jaws like a rag doll.
And the last thing she thought she heard before her temporal lobe was torn from her head and her sense of hearing ended was the deep, bear voice muttering something about being "one of the few animals who will attack and kill humans in the wild unprovoked".
After it was over and the shots of whiskey were refilled and the hand of cards resumed, all of the other animals at the table agreed that, for the little old lady's sake, it was a good thing Hippopotamus had a dentist appointment that morning and couldn't make it to the weekly poker game.
Moral: Someone should sell plastic tchotchkes of gnus.
One beautiful sunny day, the little old lady went out for a walk in the woods, enjoying the warm weather and fresh air, when she stumbled upon a quiet and sun-dappled glade. Coincidentally, this was the very same day and location that Dolphin, Hummingbird, Unicorn, and Bear gathered for their weekly poker game. The little old lady's heart began to flutter as she saw all of her favorite animals gathered together, focused intently on playing cards. "Oh," gasped the little old lady, "This is my magical dream! All the wittlest and cutest animals gathered together for a sunny and funny game of cards!"
The animals, however, were angry at this interruption of their very high-stakes and long-running poker game. They came out to the middle of the woods to get away from the squawking voices around them, not hear more. Angry, Dolphin took the cigarette out of his mouth and cocked his long snout over his shoulder. "Lady, can you keep it down, here? We're tryin' ta play cards!"
"Oh, Dolphin!" the little old lady squealed. "You are just the squeakiest-voiced picture of magic and peace! I am so happy to meet you!"
The Dolphin snorted polluted salt-water out of his blowhole (causing all the other animals at the poker game to cover their eyes and Unicorn to shoot him the finger). "Lady, you don't know a damn thing about dolphins, do you? We are highly intelligent, however we use this intelligence to torment each other and the animals around us. We kill porpoises for fun, then play with the mangled corpses for no reason other than to get our rocks off. We murder our own offspring with no regards to the propagation of species. Several of us males will gang up on a female, swim her to exhaustion while we engage in homosexual stimulation with each other, then rape her repeatedly, sometimes keeping her captive and repeating this horror show for weeks at a time. And we are so sexually aggressive that we will even attempt to rape humans that swim in our waters, sometimes even killing other humans we see as rivals. In short, we, as a species, are homicidal, psychopathic rapists. Nice talkin' atcha!"
"Oh," the little old lady said, fanning herself, her eyes wide. "Well, maybe I should throw away that "Mystical Dolphin" calendar I got last year. But, at least I still have the beauty and purity of you, Hummingbird!"
"You talkin' to me?" Hummingbird responded, fluttering his wings so fast that he scattered cards (including two he had been holding in his pocket) all over the forest floor. "I said, YOU TALKIN' TO ME, LADY! What is it that you find so amusing about me? Do I amuse you? Am I a clown to you? I mean, really--we hummingbirds are one of the most aggressive species on Earth. We have almost no social skills. We kill each other with our long and razor-tipped beaks as quick as you can say, "Nectar-ream!" and, if we were just a little bigger, we'd attack your ass, too. There is no use in the hummingbird world for other hummingbirds, unless, like our dolphin friends, it is in raping the female of our species. We are compulsively hyperactive and, because of our insane metabolism, we must eat constantly, and I mean CONSTANTLY, stealing food from any bird or bee that comes down the pike. And what goes in must come out, ya know, so we are almost constantly, and I mean CONSTANTLY, dripping urine and feces. That liquid splattering you as you watch us tear into our sources of sugar ain't the mist of happiness, toots, knowwhatamean?"
"Well," the little old lady gulped, a single tear running down her cheek five or six times out of each eye. "I, uh, don't know what to say, Hummingbird. I guess, at least, I still have the purity of the Unicorn to hold my faith in the animal kingdom and give me some comfort in the form of resin tchotchkes as I move through a dark and difficult life."
"Dat's MISTER Unicorn to you, Granny," said the Unicorn as he spit a glob of phlegm onto the forest carpet. "And, come on, really? You are going to put your faith, love, and ideas of peace on ME? A horse with a phallic symbol on its forehead? Yeah, let's just ignore the fact that I don't friggin' exist, okay? That there is no real animal that is actually pure and amazing enough, so I had to be invented? Let's ignore that. Instead, let's focus on the fact that, pre- my-hijacking-by-Christianity, I was a goat with a horn on my head and a crazy bushy tail. A friggin' goat, the animal symbol of sexual depravity. So then, lose the goat, turn me into a horse. All happiness and rainbows, now, right? Not so fast, dusty drawers. According to everyone from the Egyptians to the Greeks to the Bible, I'm the symbol of untamed strength and raw, human destroying power. And how can you tame me? Well, by sending a virgin into the woods to find me. Me, a horse (and check the motion of a woman riding a horse, see what that reminds you of), with an erection sticking out of my forehead, out in the woods all night with a virgin? Heh, heh, heh...might as well swim with the dolphins, babies. Which, of course, brings me around to the fact that, being a friggin' MADE-UP CREATURE, in order to get my magical healing horn, people had to lie and kill all kinds of other endangered species in my name, from the rhinoceros to the narwhal. Ouch, boys, too bad you were so horny! Seriously, though, thanks for the bony protrusion, and I'll be off spending time with your virgins."
"Oh dear," the little old lady moaned softy, "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear..."
"HA!" laughed the Hummingbird, "Please! Don't even get me started on the habits of the deer in this forest..."
"But what about you, Mister Bear?" the old lady asked hopefully, "Surely you won't dash my animal kingdom, plastic knick-knack hopes and dreams? Surely you are as cute and kind and pure and noble as your marketed image suggests? Surely there is some benefit to ascribing cartoon-like human ideals on various wild animals?"
Bear looked around the table at Dolphin, who nodded, then Hummingbird, who may have also nodded, but it was difficult to tell because he was darting around so fast, then to Unicorn, who also nodded, causing everyone else to duck under the table until he was finished. Then, without saying a word, Bear laid down his cards (he actually was holding three Queens), and slowly, silently, pushed away from the table and rose to his full height of over nine feet. He sighed, shook his head enormous head, scratched the side of his face with his four-inch long claws, and looked across the sun-dappled glade. At the edge of the forest, he saw the little old lady quietly calculating how much unicorn placemats and hummingbird fan pulls and dolphin hand towels would go for on eBay. The bear did some quick estimation and, with surprising power, he pounced and bounded across the clearing. Within seconds, he began to rip the little old lady apart limb by limb and eat her alive, shaking her broken body in his locked jaws like a rag doll.
And the last thing she thought she heard before her temporal lobe was torn from her head and her sense of hearing ended was the deep, bear voice muttering something about being "one of the few animals who will attack and kill humans in the wild unprovoked".
After it was over and the shots of whiskey were refilled and the hand of cards resumed, all of the other animals at the table agreed that, for the little old lady's sake, it was a good thing Hippopotamus had a dentist appointment that morning and couldn't make it to the weekly poker game.
Moral: Someone should sell plastic tchotchkes of gnus.
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Nightingale Who Went to Rehab and Learned Her Lesson, According to Her Publicist
Once, there was a Nightingale who was relatively talented, at least talented enough to be noticed, especially when she was put up for sale by her mother, who was a squid, and her father, who was part boar, part bacteria (there is very little regards to genetics in fables). The Nightingale was attractive in an underage, nightingale way, and she could sing, and she could act in varying degrees. So the Nightingale began steady work in the entertainment industry, taking appropriate roles in various youth-oriented productions and rapidly becoming one of the more popular animals in the animal kingdom.
However, the animal kingdom being full-up of animals, the success of this Nightingale began to attract hyenas from various dark corners of the entertainment industry. This was especially disturbing because, while most animals would have sensible and caring parents to look out after them, this Nightingale had a squid and a boar-bacteria hybrid as her parents, and they were more than willing to overlook the nefarious activities of the assorted hyenas in exchange for continued cash and consistent employment for their Nightingale daughter.
"Here..." purred the hyenas, "Try some of this good stuff. It will help you work longer and harder and louder and better..."
And the Nightingale, who had only a squid and a boar-bacteria hybrid for role models, and who had been working since she was just out of the egg, answered, "Okay."
"Here..." laughed the hyenas, "Stay out all night at these various hyena clubs, entertaining all of us hyenas with your hilarious misadventures and drunken antics."
And the Nightingale, with a suspicious line of white powder under her beak, answered, "It's hot in here," before she fell on her tail feathers, much to the delight of the hyenas, who laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.
"Hey," laughed the hyenas, "Aren't you a wild and crazy lesbian?"
"I just want someone to love me..." the Nightingale cried, tears rolling down her face.
"HAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHA!" laughed the hyenas, "YOU'RE THE BEST!"
"Blllgrfgrflrftzzzzz," answered the Nightingale, totally forgetting the wholesome family entertainment that had been paying her bills.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" laughed the hyenas, "YOU ARE TOO FUNNY!"
Smelling the stink of career death (plus the fact that the Nightingale was pretty darn close enough to legal age at this point--at least close enough for the Internet), the Nightingale's antics began to attract vultures and, being vultures, of course they had cameras. Whenever the Nightingale tried to get in or out of a car, the vultures swooped in with their cameras, hoping to get pictures of the Nightingale flashing her tail, or, at least, pictures of the Nightingale falling down stairs. The Nightingale obliged by never wearing underwear (which, to be honest, most birds do not, outside of those little parakeets that old ladies have as pets and stone geese on the front porches of hillbillies) and falling down frequently.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" her hyena friends laughed, "YOU ARE A SUPA-STAR!"
After all of these antics, the Nightingale began to feel invincible and actually believe the hyenas that surrounded her. "I am so funny," she would say (only it came out like, "Gaaaaaaaaaaaaahhurbldur"). "I am a supa-star!"
"YES" laughed the hyenas, even though both the Nightengale and this fable had long stopped being funny, "KEEP GOING! YOU ARE OUR FAV!" and, the whole time, the vultures continued to smoke cigarettes and snap pictures of the entire mess. And, of course, this was not a recipe for successful and healthy living. One evening (and it didn't really matter which evening for the Nightingale, since they were all the same at this point), the Nightengale tried to fly from a party to an after-party and, instead, flew into several cars, two walls, a parking meter, some trees, and a baby seal who was trying to cross the street and gain safe-haven in a seal orphanage. The Nightengale was promptly arrested and, thinking that the jail was the after-party, began to dance around and throw her hands in the air. The police, unimpressed, slapped a tiny little ankle bracelet around her bird-foot. "This will tell us if you have been drinking or taking drugs," said the police. "If you don't drink and do drugs, then you can continue to be free. If you do drink and do drugs, we will throw you into a birdcage."
"WOOT WOOT!" said the Nightengale.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" laughed the hyenas.
And the vultures took pictures of the whole thing.
Of course, immediately upon her release, the Nightengale began to drink and do drugs, and, as promised, her ankle bracelet began to beep. The police showed up to arrest her.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" laughed the hyenas.
And the vultures continued to take pictures.
The Nightengale was taken to court and given a chance to explain herself to the stork judge, but, of course, the Nightengale was in little condition to explain much of anything, and, unfortunately, she didn't look around to see that her hyena friends, being powerful afraid of both law enforcement and people who do things like have jobs, were nowhere to be found in the courtroom.
"Why do you continue to drink and take drugs?" asked the stork judge.
"PAAAAAAAAAR-TAY!" yelled the Nightengale. Only no one laughed and, instead, everyone in the courtroom and watching on TV clacked their beaks in disapproval.
"Why do you continue to put yourself and others at risk?" asked the stork judge.
"I'M A SUPA-STAR!" screamed the Nightengale. And, when, again, due to the overall lack of hyenas, no one laughed but, instead, clicked and clacked their beaks in disapproval, the Nightengale turned around and yelled, "F--- YOU!" to all the other birds in the courtroom (as well as those watching at home on TV).
In response to concern over their daughter's welfare (and, by "welfare", your humble author means "income), the Nightingale's parents suddenly showed back up (Remember them? Well, neither did the Nightengale). "Please have mercy on my baby!" sobbed the squid mother with big, blubbery calamari tears, "Please! Please, show compassion! I only have one more with any kind of earning potential! Take pity!"
"Yeah!" snarled the boar-bacteria hybrid father, who was too busy taking nude pictures of drugged women and playing bit parts in infomercials to actually show up in person and, therefore, came to court via a cell phone message, "INJUSTICE! INEQUITY! FREE THE NIGHTINGALE!"
(In a brief aside, it should also be noted that the peas and the corn from the classic fable, "The Peas, the Corn, the Fish Stick, the 2-Liter of delicious Coca-Cola, and the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry" became aware of the antics taking place on the opposite side of the animal kingdom and, attempting to respond to their own mess of spilling yet delicious Coca-Cola, began to yell, "Hey! You! Look over there! Look at that! Don't look at us, but look over there! That's way cooler!" And, sadly, that's exactly what most of the animal kingdom did.)
The Nightengale, who was now laughing like a hyena herself, turned around and yelled to her parents, "F--- YOU, TOO!" Then, she shook her hips and yelled to the courtroom, "PARTY ON! WOOT WOOT!" Then, she laughed hysterically and, when finished, began to sob uncontrollably and pound her head on the table while her lawyers struggled to write a statement explaining how much she had learned from this difficult experience and how much charitable singing she was going to do to show true repentance.
The stork judge, sick to death of both this behavior and this fable, decided to put an end to the whole mess by ordering the Nightengale to be thrown into a cage. "It's okay," said the pig guards, patting her head as they led the Nightengale away (they were admirers of her various family films, which allowed them to keep their kids quietly entertained while they could stare at her boobs), "We'll hide you away from all the hideous riff-raff in the cage and, due to overcrowding in our cage by all the hideous riff-raff who don't contribute to society like you do, we'll let you out in five minutes anyhow."
"ROCK OUT LOUD!" the Nightengale shouted, pumping her fists, "QUAAAAAAAAAA!" And she fell over, waving her tail in the air.
And the vultures continued to take pictures of the whole thing.
Moral: Your high-school English teacher was right; stories where there are no protagonists suck.
However, the animal kingdom being full-up of animals, the success of this Nightingale began to attract hyenas from various dark corners of the entertainment industry. This was especially disturbing because, while most animals would have sensible and caring parents to look out after them, this Nightingale had a squid and a boar-bacteria hybrid as her parents, and they were more than willing to overlook the nefarious activities of the assorted hyenas in exchange for continued cash and consistent employment for their Nightingale daughter.
"Here..." purred the hyenas, "Try some of this good stuff. It will help you work longer and harder and louder and better..."
And the Nightingale, who had only a squid and a boar-bacteria hybrid for role models, and who had been working since she was just out of the egg, answered, "Okay."
"Here..." laughed the hyenas, "Stay out all night at these various hyena clubs, entertaining all of us hyenas with your hilarious misadventures and drunken antics."
And the Nightingale, with a suspicious line of white powder under her beak, answered, "It's hot in here," before she fell on her tail feathers, much to the delight of the hyenas, who laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.
"Hey," laughed the hyenas, "Aren't you a wild and crazy lesbian?"
"I just want someone to love me..." the Nightingale cried, tears rolling down her face.
"HAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHA!" laughed the hyenas, "YOU'RE THE BEST!"
"Blllgrfgrflrftzzzzz," answered the Nightingale, totally forgetting the wholesome family entertainment that had been paying her bills.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" laughed the hyenas, "YOU ARE TOO FUNNY!"
Smelling the stink of career death (plus the fact that the Nightingale was pretty darn close enough to legal age at this point--at least close enough for the Internet), the Nightingale's antics began to attract vultures and, being vultures, of course they had cameras. Whenever the Nightingale tried to get in or out of a car, the vultures swooped in with their cameras, hoping to get pictures of the Nightingale flashing her tail, or, at least, pictures of the Nightingale falling down stairs. The Nightingale obliged by never wearing underwear (which, to be honest, most birds do not, outside of those little parakeets that old ladies have as pets and stone geese on the front porches of hillbillies) and falling down frequently.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" her hyena friends laughed, "YOU ARE A SUPA-STAR!"
After all of these antics, the Nightingale began to feel invincible and actually believe the hyenas that surrounded her. "I am so funny," she would say (only it came out like, "Gaaaaaaaaaaaaahhurbldur"). "I am a supa-star!"
"YES" laughed the hyenas, even though both the Nightengale and this fable had long stopped being funny, "KEEP GOING! YOU ARE OUR FAV!" and, the whole time, the vultures continued to smoke cigarettes and snap pictures of the entire mess. And, of course, this was not a recipe for successful and healthy living. One evening (and it didn't really matter which evening for the Nightingale, since they were all the same at this point), the Nightengale tried to fly from a party to an after-party and, instead, flew into several cars, two walls, a parking meter, some trees, and a baby seal who was trying to cross the street and gain safe-haven in a seal orphanage. The Nightengale was promptly arrested and, thinking that the jail was the after-party, began to dance around and throw her hands in the air. The police, unimpressed, slapped a tiny little ankle bracelet around her bird-foot. "This will tell us if you have been drinking or taking drugs," said the police. "If you don't drink and do drugs, then you can continue to be free. If you do drink and do drugs, we will throw you into a birdcage."
"WOOT WOOT!" said the Nightengale.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" laughed the hyenas.
And the vultures took pictures of the whole thing.
Of course, immediately upon her release, the Nightengale began to drink and do drugs, and, as promised, her ankle bracelet began to beep. The police showed up to arrest her.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" laughed the hyenas.
And the vultures continued to take pictures.
The Nightengale was taken to court and given a chance to explain herself to the stork judge, but, of course, the Nightengale was in little condition to explain much of anything, and, unfortunately, she didn't look around to see that her hyena friends, being powerful afraid of both law enforcement and people who do things like have jobs, were nowhere to be found in the courtroom.
"Why do you continue to drink and take drugs?" asked the stork judge.
"PAAAAAAAAAR-TAY!" yelled the Nightengale. Only no one laughed and, instead, everyone in the courtroom and watching on TV clacked their beaks in disapproval.
"Why do you continue to put yourself and others at risk?" asked the stork judge.
"I'M A SUPA-STAR!" screamed the Nightengale. And, when, again, due to the overall lack of hyenas, no one laughed but, instead, clicked and clacked their beaks in disapproval, the Nightengale turned around and yelled, "F--- YOU!" to all the other birds in the courtroom (as well as those watching at home on TV).
In response to concern over their daughter's welfare (and, by "welfare", your humble author means "income), the Nightingale's parents suddenly showed back up (Remember them? Well, neither did the Nightengale). "Please have mercy on my baby!" sobbed the squid mother with big, blubbery calamari tears, "Please! Please, show compassion! I only have one more with any kind of earning potential! Take pity!"
"Yeah!" snarled the boar-bacteria hybrid father, who was too busy taking nude pictures of drugged women and playing bit parts in infomercials to actually show up in person and, therefore, came to court via a cell phone message, "INJUSTICE! INEQUITY! FREE THE NIGHTINGALE!"
(In a brief aside, it should also be noted that the peas and the corn from the classic fable, "The Peas, the Corn, the Fish Stick, the 2-Liter of delicious Coca-Cola, and the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry" became aware of the antics taking place on the opposite side of the animal kingdom and, attempting to respond to their own mess of spilling yet delicious Coca-Cola, began to yell, "Hey! You! Look over there! Look at that! Don't look at us, but look over there! That's way cooler!" And, sadly, that's exactly what most of the animal kingdom did.)
The Nightengale, who was now laughing like a hyena herself, turned around and yelled to her parents, "F--- YOU, TOO!" Then, she shook her hips and yelled to the courtroom, "PARTY ON! WOOT WOOT!" Then, she laughed hysterically and, when finished, began to sob uncontrollably and pound her head on the table while her lawyers struggled to write a statement explaining how much she had learned from this difficult experience and how much charitable singing she was going to do to show true repentance.
The stork judge, sick to death of both this behavior and this fable, decided to put an end to the whole mess by ordering the Nightengale to be thrown into a cage. "It's okay," said the pig guards, patting her head as they led the Nightengale away (they were admirers of her various family films, which allowed them to keep their kids quietly entertained while they could stare at her boobs), "We'll hide you away from all the hideous riff-raff in the cage and, due to overcrowding in our cage by all the hideous riff-raff who don't contribute to society like you do, we'll let you out in five minutes anyhow."
"ROCK OUT LOUD!" the Nightengale shouted, pumping her fists, "QUAAAAAAAAAA!" And she fell over, waving her tail in the air.
And the vultures continued to take pictures of the whole thing.
Moral: Your high-school English teacher was right; stories where there are no protagonists suck.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The Monkeys and the Scientists
Once, there was a Scientist who thought that she was cute, so she said, "If you have enough monkeys banging on typewriters for a long enough period of time, they will ultimately produce the complete works of William Shakespeare."
Well, the rest of the Scientists felt that the quotable Scientist thought she was just way too cute (although, actually, she was not only cute, but smokin' hot, and most of the rest of the ugly and friendless Scientists were just jealous, especially since they had all asked her out, but she had said no, since she was too busy making up cute quotes) and they set out to prove her wrong. They created the Internet where, rather than keep the monkeys typing in cages, the Scientists took the "Lion Country Safari" approach and allowed the monkeys to roam free while the Scientists stayed safely in cages. And, with that, the Scientists stepped back to allow the monkeys to start to type.
And they produced this.
And this.
And this.
And even this.
But, no matter how long and hard the Scientists looked, they could not find "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare" by anyone other than William Shakespeare. They found ads for free Viagra. They found time-wasting games where, instead of producing something for the benefit of humanity, people sat, sweating in desk chairs, pretending to be elves and wizards. They found illegal music downloads.They found nuts who were interested in selling gold and having dainty little tea parties. They found information on films of various interest, accuracy, and quality. And they found porn--lots and lots and lots of porn. And, for every piece of interesting and quality writing they found, they found even more of this, and this, and a whole lot of crap like this. Satisfied that they had proved the cute Scientist's hypothesis invalid, the other Scientists downloaded "California Girls" for free, posted some lies on the Wikipedia cold fusion page, updated their Facebook statuses to "Single" (primarily because they realized that, now that they had made her look stupid, their initial shreds of hope that the cute Scientist would date them were futile and should be abandoned), took one more quick glance at crazy Scientist bondage porn, and logged off to go talk to the cute Scientist.
"Cute Scientist," they began (because Scientists have secret machines that make sexual harassment invisible), "We have proved you wrong. We have been running the Internet for a few years now, allowing the Monkeys to bang away on their keyboards, and none have produced Shakespeare. We are afraid to tell you that, while you may be good at cute quotes, you are no good at science, and we have nullified your hypothesis."
But the cute Scientist just shrugged and said, "Hey, whatever. I'm dating a pro-hockey player anyway." And, with that, she quit being a Scientist and went and got married without a pre-nup. And the other Scientists cursed their breath and went back to killing orcs.
Moral: If you have enough monkeys banging on typewriters for a long enough period of time, they will not produce the works of William Shakespeare but will mainly throw poop and break the equipment.
Well, the rest of the Scientists felt that the quotable Scientist thought she was just way too cute (although, actually, she was not only cute, but smokin' hot, and most of the rest of the ugly and friendless Scientists were just jealous, especially since they had all asked her out, but she had said no, since she was too busy making up cute quotes) and they set out to prove her wrong. They created the Internet where, rather than keep the monkeys typing in cages, the Scientists took the "Lion Country Safari" approach and allowed the monkeys to roam free while the Scientists stayed safely in cages. And, with that, the Scientists stepped back to allow the monkeys to start to type.
And they produced this.
And this.
And this.
And even this.
But, no matter how long and hard the Scientists looked, they could not find "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare" by anyone other than William Shakespeare. They found ads for free Viagra. They found time-wasting games where, instead of producing something for the benefit of humanity, people sat, sweating in desk chairs, pretending to be elves and wizards. They found illegal music downloads.They found nuts who were interested in selling gold and having dainty little tea parties. They found information on films of various interest, accuracy, and quality. And they found porn--lots and lots and lots of porn. And, for every piece of interesting and quality writing they found, they found even more of this, and this, and a whole lot of crap like this. Satisfied that they had proved the cute Scientist's hypothesis invalid, the other Scientists downloaded "California Girls" for free, posted some lies on the Wikipedia cold fusion page, updated their Facebook statuses to "Single" (primarily because they realized that, now that they had made her look stupid, their initial shreds of hope that the cute Scientist would date them were futile and should be abandoned), took one more quick glance at crazy Scientist bondage porn, and logged off to go talk to the cute Scientist.
"Cute Scientist," they began (because Scientists have secret machines that make sexual harassment invisible), "We have proved you wrong. We have been running the Internet for a few years now, allowing the Monkeys to bang away on their keyboards, and none have produced Shakespeare. We are afraid to tell you that, while you may be good at cute quotes, you are no good at science, and we have nullified your hypothesis."
But the cute Scientist just shrugged and said, "Hey, whatever. I'm dating a pro-hockey player anyway." And, with that, she quit being a Scientist and went and got married without a pre-nup. And the other Scientists cursed their breath and went back to killing orcs.
Moral: If you have enough monkeys banging on typewriters for a long enough period of time, they will not produce the works of William Shakespeare but will mainly throw poop and break the equipment.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The Peas, the Corn, the Fish Stick, the 2-Liter of delicious Coca-Cola, and the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry
Once, there was a delectable and somewhat nutritious dinner consisting of peas and corn, with a fish stick in the middle, and a tall, cold glass of delicious Coca-Cola*. The dinner would be all the better if the peas and the corn could stop arguing, but, of course, they couldn't, and, often, they would both turn to the fish stick for answers (for the rest of the dinner table had previously elected the fish stick as the leader, based primarily on the paper napkin demographic support.) But the fish stick, being a processed piece of food substance, usually said nothing and typically laid low.
One day, the corn noticed that the delicious glass of Coca-Cola was usually poured out of a towering 2-Liter bottle and, as corn will often do, it became very concerned, especially with the size of the 2-Liter in comparison to a tiny kernal of corn, and also the general sloppiness with which the delicious Coca-Cola was often poured from the bottle. The corn began to talk loudly and rapidly with varying degrees of sense.
"Peas!" the corn cried, "Don't you think we should pass some sort of regulation on that 2-Liter of Coca-Cola?"
"Nonsense!" coughed the peas. "Why, that 2-Liter is controlled by the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry! There is no one to better be in control of that 2-Liter than the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry!"
The corn was still confused and didn't quite understand what the peas were talking about, so they meekly answered, "Well, shouldn't we at least require that the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry pour the Coca-Cola a little slower-"
"Socialists!" interrupted the peas.
"Well," the corn tried again, "What if we just make a limit on the number of 2-Liters that can be on the table at any one time-"
"Dinner-haters!" screamed the peas.
The corn huddled in its own cream and, after a few seconds of awkward silence, said, "Perhaps we could just ask nicely that the cap of the Coca-Cola be kept nearby in case-"
"Baby-carrot killers!" ranted the peas, holding their collective breath for so long that they began to look like radishes. At this point, both the peas and the corn decided to ask the fish stick what it thought. And, as previously described, the fish stick, he didn't say anything. The peas and the corn then decided that the silence of the fish stick was enough to give them plausible deniability and allow the status quo, so, with that, the peas went back to plotting for paper napkin vote suppression and the corn went back to whining ineffectively and everybody continued to enjoy a delicious, cold glass of Coca-Cola.
Then, one night, the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry wasn't paying too much attention, and the 2-liter tipped over and began to flood the plate.
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" the corn screamed for a while. Then, as it began to drown in delicious Coca-Cola, the corn called out, "This is horrible! A tragedy! We need to begin to have meetings on what kind of hearings we should vote on having on this disaster!" And, with that, the corn retired to the edge of the plate where it could have closed-door meetings until the situation was fixed.
The peas, on the other hand, took another route and began to scream insanity at the fish stick. "Why don't you do something about this!" the peas yelled. "Why don't you fix this! How can you just lie there! You should have been monitoring this! How could you allow this to happen in the first place?! You are an incompetent and a socialist!" The corn heard this and, instead of pointing out that it was the peas who refused to allow anything to be done, saw an opportunity to blame the fish stick as well. This, the corn hoped, would convince the napkins to ignore the fact that it had also contributed to the sticky puddle of delicious Coca-Cola by doing absolutely nothing. So, as the peas raved, "Fish stick! You are a communistic fraud!", the corn chimed in, "Yeah!" then continued to have meetings at the edge of the plate, as far away from the rapidly spreading spill of delicious Coca-Cola as possible.
The fish stick, however, being a fish stick, didn't say anything and did absolutely nothing, and, ultimately, the 2-liter was emptied out and stopped pouring everywhere anyhow. None of it mattered, though, because the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry just moved over to the other side of the table, away from the mess of delicious Coca-Cola, peas, corn, fish sticks, and sopping, falling apart paper napkins, and decided, from this day forward, to start eating dinner over there, where it wasn't as sticky and there weren't all those nasty vegetables.
Moral: Peas, corn, delicious Coca-Cola, and fish sticks- it doesn't matter. They're all going to come out the same in the end. However, no one bites the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry that feeds them.
*While it would appear that delicious Coca-Cola is a villian in this fable, allow me to point out that the 2-liter of delicious Coca-Cola is actually a pawn and in no way responsible or at blame for the disaster depicted. Any Coca-Cola representatives reading this blog should note that, overall, the tone of the blog author is extraordinarily positive toward delicious and refreshing Coca-Cola, and, because of this, may wish to consider providing the blog author with assorted Coca-Cola product, particularly of the Vanilla Coke Zero variety--which, it may be pointed out, would not be sticky should it spill. As my grandma always says, "I'd like to teach the world to sing that they should have a Coke and a smile."**
**It is important to note that the author of this blog has not received any payment, in cash or product, from the Coca-Cola Company. Yet. But he can always hope.
One day, the corn noticed that the delicious glass of Coca-Cola was usually poured out of a towering 2-Liter bottle and, as corn will often do, it became very concerned, especially with the size of the 2-Liter in comparison to a tiny kernal of corn, and also the general sloppiness with which the delicious Coca-Cola was often poured from the bottle. The corn began to talk loudly and rapidly with varying degrees of sense.
"Peas!" the corn cried, "Don't you think we should pass some sort of regulation on that 2-Liter of Coca-Cola?"
"Nonsense!" coughed the peas. "Why, that 2-Liter is controlled by the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry! There is no one to better be in control of that 2-Liter than the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry!"
The corn was still confused and didn't quite understand what the peas were talking about, so they meekly answered, "Well, shouldn't we at least require that the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry pour the Coca-Cola a little slower-"
"Socialists!" interrupted the peas.
"Well," the corn tried again, "What if we just make a limit on the number of 2-Liters that can be on the table at any one time-"
"Dinner-haters!" screamed the peas.
The corn huddled in its own cream and, after a few seconds of awkward silence, said, "Perhaps we could just ask nicely that the cap of the Coca-Cola be kept nearby in case-"
"Baby-carrot killers!" ranted the peas, holding their collective breath for so long that they began to look like radishes. At this point, both the peas and the corn decided to ask the fish stick what it thought. And, as previously described, the fish stick, he didn't say anything. The peas and the corn then decided that the silence of the fish stick was enough to give them plausible deniability and allow the status quo, so, with that, the peas went back to plotting for paper napkin vote suppression and the corn went back to whining ineffectively and everybody continued to enjoy a delicious, cold glass of Coca-Cola.
Then, one night, the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry wasn't paying too much attention, and the 2-liter tipped over and began to flood the plate.
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" the corn screamed for a while. Then, as it began to drown in delicious Coca-Cola, the corn called out, "This is horrible! A tragedy! We need to begin to have meetings on what kind of hearings we should vote on having on this disaster!" And, with that, the corn retired to the edge of the plate where it could have closed-door meetings until the situation was fixed.
The peas, on the other hand, took another route and began to scream insanity at the fish stick. "Why don't you do something about this!" the peas yelled. "Why don't you fix this! How can you just lie there! You should have been monitoring this! How could you allow this to happen in the first place?! You are an incompetent and a socialist!" The corn heard this and, instead of pointing out that it was the peas who refused to allow anything to be done, saw an opportunity to blame the fish stick as well. This, the corn hoped, would convince the napkins to ignore the fact that it had also contributed to the sticky puddle of delicious Coca-Cola by doing absolutely nothing. So, as the peas raved, "Fish stick! You are a communistic fraud!", the corn chimed in, "Yeah!" then continued to have meetings at the edge of the plate, as far away from the rapidly spreading spill of delicious Coca-Cola as possible.
The fish stick, however, being a fish stick, didn't say anything and did absolutely nothing, and, ultimately, the 2-liter was emptied out and stopped pouring everywhere anyhow. None of it mattered, though, because the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry just moved over to the other side of the table, away from the mess of delicious Coca-Cola, peas, corn, fish sticks, and sopping, falling apart paper napkins, and decided, from this day forward, to start eating dinner over there, where it wasn't as sticky and there weren't all those nasty vegetables.
Moral: Peas, corn, delicious Coca-Cola, and fish sticks- it doesn't matter. They're all going to come out the same in the end. However, no one bites the Invisible Hand of Free Market Industry that feeds them.
*While it would appear that delicious Coca-Cola is a villian in this fable, allow me to point out that the 2-liter of delicious Coca-Cola is actually a pawn and in no way responsible or at blame for the disaster depicted. Any Coca-Cola representatives reading this blog should note that, overall, the tone of the blog author is extraordinarily positive toward delicious and refreshing Coca-Cola, and, because of this, may wish to consider providing the blog author with assorted Coca-Cola product, particularly of the Vanilla Coke Zero variety--which, it may be pointed out, would not be sticky should it spill. As my grandma always says, "I'd like to teach the world to sing that they should have a Coke and a smile."**
**It is important to note that the author of this blog has not received any payment, in cash or product, from the Coca-Cola Company. Yet. But he can always hope.
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