I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Monday, May 05, 2003
Astro Jetson And Scooby-Doo Are Gay Lovers...
I'm glad animals don't talk. I think that they'd be really critical of the human race and put us down a lot. I can just imagine walking down the street and a Labrador telling me that I smell bad. But then they lick themselves in dirty places. But then, humans make fun of dogs for doing that, but you know we would - if we could. Well, some can - but, I'm not that limber. If you were ever at a party and could tell that somebody farted, your talking animal friend would probably be able to tell you.
Animals would get sick of us, and start to form unions. They'd want their own representative in the city council. Some would get sick of humans and try to start their own island community. It would be a secret. Maybe the island wouldn't work, though...nobody would ever pick the dog poop off of the beach. Some animals would form gangs and terrorize the street at night. Orchard members would be extorted. Alpo truck drivers robbed at claw point. It would suck to deliver pizzas. You'd always get a weird pizza order with strange ingredients to be delivered at a strange location. Then the animals wouldn't have any money to pay, and if you threatened to take it back, they'd threaten to kick your ass.
I'd teach animals how to read. I'd take taxis with animals. We'd buy Disneyland annual passes. I'd get them fake ID's. I'd love them, and hug them, and name them George.
And I'd teach monkeys how to type, so that I didn't have to.
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