The First Day of Christmas Insults My Intelligence

The first thing at Christmas that has insulted me:

The kid who wants a large breed

(Photo credit: Steve Harris)

I guess I should be glad that she doesn’t want a boring generic pony.  (Photo credit: Steve Harris)

Blogger’s note: This is (obviously) a 12 part series.  All photos will have new captions in each post, so you’ll miss a lot if you only read day 12.  For all completed posts in this series, click on the “twelve days of Christmas” link below.

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The Great Zebra Debate Insults My Intelligence

I, a human blogger, am writing about zebras today.  Stuff like this always turns out well for everyone involved.

You see, it was reportedly someone of my species who discovered these wonderful animals.  God’s idea was supposedly to improve horses’ figures at the cost of their skins.  Because humans enjoy fancy rugs.

And then, as can be readily observed, folks of my species started spending their time trying to convince lions to stop eating these animals.  But lions are more stubborn than senators and they can be difficult for humans to communicate with.  But our attempts show how we’re environmentally enlightened.

So we support zebra use because we’re stylish and we oppose zebra use because we’re ecostylish.  This fits a prominent definition of convenience wherein the object of convenience is viewed as benefiting a preconceived desire regardless of what he or she does.

Seriously.  That’s a factual definition.  For instance, zebras conveniently avoid lions and tigers because it’s not appropriate for such “weak” and “slow” animals.  And when they do go for interspecies friendships, they’re still considered “slow” and “soon to be dead,” but in a different way.  And no action can break the cycle of convenience because anything will be twisted around to fit.

It’s a convenient cultural construction, not biological reality, that zebras are slower than lions.  If we redefine speed to something more inconvenient, zebras and lions can live together in harmony.

Modern zebras demonstrate their interspecies acumen by sneaking up on their new lion friends.  (Photo credit: Robin Hutton)

Modern zebras demonstrate their interspecies acumen by sneaking up on their new lion friends. (Photo credit: Robin Hutton)

And with that in mind, the conservation of zebras insults my intelligence.  There’s simply no way to think about a zebra that will not result in the animal getting killed.  That’s not fair to the zebras.

Even though they’re probably pretty tasty…

Oink!

Cats Insult My Intelligence

I’m going to get in so much trouble for this, but here it goes anyway.

To the tune of “You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon:

A man walks down the street
He says, Why am I soft in the middle now?
Why am I soft in the middle?
Defendin’ my home is so hard.
I need a guard cat with sharpened claws.
I want a shot at some safety.
Don’t want to end up a young guy
In an young guy graveyard.
Cute felines, cute felines,
Cats in the moonlight
Come upon my well-lit door.
Abyssinian, ‘ssinian
Get this cat in here with me
You know I don’t find this crime
Amusing anymore.

“If you’ll be my bodyguard
I can fill your dinner bowl.
I can call you Betty
And Betty, when you call me,
You can call Meow.”

A man walks to the fridge
He says, Why am I short of some chicken?
Cat wants a little can of some chicken
And now my nights are so long.
Where’s my fish and milk carton?
What if she starves here?
Who’ll be my protector
Soon as my protector is
Gone, gone?
She’ll duck back down the alley
With some roly-poly little bobtail guy.
All along, along
There were incidents and accidents.
There were hints and allegations.

“If you’ll be my bodyguard
I can fill your dinner bowl.
I can call you Betty
And Betty, when you call me,
You can call Meow.”

A man sits on his couch
In his house on a bad road.
Maybe it’s a bur-guh-lar.
Maybe it’s the cat’s first defense.
She doesn’t care to engage,
No cares in the world.
She is a lazy cat.
She is surrounded by the spoils, the spoils:
Burgers from the marketplace
Litter box and lots of cool toys.
She looks around, around.
She sees gunfire in the living room now.
Purring in infinity
She says, “Hey man, now bring me tuna!”

“If you’ll be my bodyguard
I can fill your dinner bowl.
I can call you Betty
And Betty, when you call me,
You can call Meow.”

Feeding the Bears Insults My Intelligence

If you visit Bern, Switzerland, you’re likely to find a pit at the end of town that contains a few friendly-looking bears:

Switzerland is a zoo.

If I were one of these bears, I’d miss the little things like grass and trees.

However, Switzerland is a zoo… especially during tourist season.  And do you know what happens in a zoo?

Inappropriate feeding:

Here's a closer look at the same image.

Here’s a closer look at the same image.  Notice the parent and child in the upper right.

As the sign often says, “Do not feed the bears.”  But if you must feed them, please remember that your kid is not appropriate for a bear’s dinner.  The bear may enjoy him, but you’re inviting a lot of trouble on yourself.

The quiet ain’t worth it.

Schedules Insult My Intelligence

Quoth the sloth: sleep some more.  (Photo credit: Hunterwisson)

Quoth the sloth: sleep some more. (Photo credit: Hunterwisson)

Today is Wednesday.  I always post on Wednesday.  It’s my schedule.

I don’t feel like writing anything today.  But today is Wednesday.  I have to write something.

No I don’t.  I’m the boss.

Pass the donuts.

But I should write something.  My readers expect something.  My fingers expect exercise.

I don’t want fat fingers.  I want muscular fingers.

But I am tired.  I want to take a nap.  Sleep is good.

But it is Wednesday afternoon.  Sleep is for nights.  And I have to write.

Why do we say “write?”  I’m not writing.  I’m typing.

type type type type type type type

I must type because today is Wednesday.  Wednesday is typing day.  Wednesday is also “hump day.”

hump hump hump hump hump hump hump

Oh great.  Now I’ll never get anything done.  Maybe I can change.

I am a sloth.  I want to become two parts camel.

Slothdom eats.  Slothdom sleeps.  Slothdom humps.

Slothdom is beautiful.  Slothdom is incomplete.

Cameldom would carry me through the desert of parched ideas to the promised land of a finished piece of typistry.

And then I could still eat, sleep, and hump.

Expectations Insult My Intelligence

Today, in this post, you probably expected something funny.  For it is true that the antelopes graze in the verdant pastures and the grass gets thinner and thinner and thinner.

 

Yummy Yummy grass (Photo Credit: Mr Raja Purohit)

Yummy yummy grass. (Photo Credit: Mr Raja Purohit)

That, my friends, is the meaning of life.  Your green slowly disappears, your environment becomes ever browner, and you get fatter by the moment.

It’s fun while it lasts, but then you get eaten by a lion.

I wish you all a beautiful day.

 

Field Trips Insult My Intelligence

I wrote a parody of Maya Angelou’s poem “Still I Rise” as one of my earliest posts.  I liked the result but few people saw it because the blog was so new.  I’ve been meaning to write a sequel ever since.

That said, it’s time to revisit one of the cruelest topics I’ve ever dealt with: children and animals… so here’s another morbid poem.  (Admittedly, the original was better.)

You can take kids to the forest,
They will see a lot of flies.
You can tell them not to feed the bears,
But then some poor kid dies.

Can’t they listen to instructions?
Don’t they want to stay alive?
‘Cause they play like there’s no danger there
That they just cannot survive.

Just like George and like cats
Who are curious young guys,
Though his hope’s springing high,
Still, he dies.

Photo credit: VanBuren

Photo credit: VanBuren

Should we try for something safer?
Is the subway that bad too?
(Children falling in like teardrops
Ain’t what they’re supposed to do.)

We can try hard to restrain them,
We can offer them a prize,
‘Cause the third rail’s got some energy,
And it makes sure some kid dies.

Photo Credit: PDPhotos

Photo Credit: PDPhotos

We may choose to take the bus now
We may hope that no one fries
We may warn “That fence should not be climbed”
But always someone dies.

Does that image so upset you
That we’ll have to try the beach?
But there’s sharks there underwater,
When kids drown you’ll hear a screech.

Down to the depths of ocean’s floor,
He dies.
In through the teeth, they’re gnashing his brain,
He dies.
He’s a shark’s breakfast, bloody with pride,
Floating and bloating he flows with the tide.

Leaving behind cries of terror and fear,
He dies.
Into a stomach that’s wondrously clear,
He dies.
Bringing the flesh that his ancestors gave
He is the dream and the hope the sharks crave.
He dies.
He dies.
He dies.