Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Pascal's Parables

Originally posted December 2013 on G+

Rotisserie Chickens
Woolly Mammoths

The aardvark eats ants, and I understand they are quite tasty. The ants, not the aardvarks. The aardvark is also listed first in the animal phonebook. Originally, the aardvark was just "ardvark". The xenurine was jelly and renamed itself armadillo.

The "ardvark" was upset and appealed to a customer service agent to try to get listed ahead of the newly named armadillo. The customer service agent wasn't authorised to make any changes to the alphabetical listing so the "ardvark" asked politely to speak to a supervisor.

The supervisor, unfortunately, could not offer any help either, but did seem genuinely empathetic to the "ardvark". The supervisor offered 10% off the next order of phonebooks as a consolation.

The inconsolable "ardvark" pressed to speak to a manager and was told the manager was unavailable, but would be happy to assist between the hours of 9am to 3pm central African time. This was difficult for the "ardvark" because it was nocturnal and usually slept during those hours.

Instead, the "ardvark" typed up a strongly worded email complaining about the situation and demanding redress. After a lengthy review and appeal process I won't go into here, the "ardvark"'s request was denied. An astute deer mouse who overheard this story between two "ardvark"s produced a simple but very clever solution.

Just spell your name with two "A"s, said the deer mouse.

So that is how we spell aardvark to this day.

Tell me about the birds and the bees, she said.

Ok, I think it's about time, he said. The bird represents the female and the bee represents the male. The bee must court the birds, trying to gain their attention and offering gifts and bribes to gain access to their hearts.

The bees spend a lot of their time around flowers. Birds love flowers, you see. The bee will buzz around a lot of flowers and rub off some of the colours on them. They also get covered in pollen, which is plant semen. The bees will then try to attract the attention of the birds in the following manner.

He continued, the bees will invite the bird to some fun activity, like going to a bar to get drunk, or go to the elk's lodge for a night of bingo. If the bird accepts then she will nod and they will spend an awkward evening pretending to get to know each other making innocuous and carefully neutral conversation.

Assuming the bee doesn't do anything stupid, like drool slobber all over himself, or burp loudly while proclaiming how big a bee he is, or bragging about how many birds he's stung in one sitting, then he will be invited back to the bird's nest.

This part gets difficult, he said. Do you want to keep going?

She nodded.

He continued, so then they get back to the bird's nest and they start slowly undressing each other. The bee, of course, takes off his bee suit and the bird takes off her bird suit. They stand naked for a few minutes and then... He trailed off.

What? she asked.

They make sweet love where the bee puts where the pen is into the state of Virginia, he said nervously.

I don't understand, she said.

What don't you understand? he asked.

I don't understand what I'm supposed to write for my school report on animals that begin with the letter B, she said.

Oh, never mind then, he said.


The cameltoe and the camelho are closely related. The cameltoe is a device used by the camelho to attract male callers to her place of business. The cameltoe is often envisioned as the soft bivalve like two loaves of dough placed at a slight angle to each other, meeting at the top part. It is the size and shape of a fleshy palm print.

The camel does not have a proper toe. But the cameltoe does resemble a camel foot print. In fact, what is commonly called the cameltoe should properly be called "cameltoes".

The cameltoe is reminiscent of a vulva and pudenda viewed through the tight constraints of a stretchy cloth. This is what gives the cameltoe its power and so it increases the efficiency of gathering new business opportunities for the camelho.

The camelhoes come in various shapes, sizes, and colours. They range from dark and shaggy to light and shorn. They can be bactrian or they can be dromedary. The preference for one over the other is determined by some secret heuristic buried in the male camel mind. And, indeed, some business customers prefer to adhere to a strict diet of the same camelho type while other stray wildly and sample all the variety that Camelgod had graced upon this earth.

Occasionally there is a political movement to stop the illicit trade of camelho services. The camelpolice make a half-hearted effort to find and arrest any displays of cameltoe. Both the customers and camelho entrepreneurs cry foul because they believe their display of cameltoe signage is a freedom of speech issue.

Often, the political climate shifts and other more important causes are taken up which allows the camelpolice to investigate something else. The camelhoes then proceed to dispense their services in relative equanimity.

Dolphins (They Were Dolphins Part IV)

So here's another one.

The orca society is matriarchal. A child orca will never leave its mother's side for the life of either animal. A young boy born to the mother orca swam next to his mother for 10 years. They were inseparable.

A male bull orca joined the pod and jealously tried to separate the boy from his mother. The boy did not have any negative or positive feelings about the interloper, he merely stayed next to his mother. The mother, meanwhile seemed to tacitly accept the bull's presence even though she could intuit the strain it was placing on her relationship with her child.

The bull bore different markings than the rest of the pod that swam together under the tutelage of the grand dame. How he had ever joined the pod was a mystery because he had yellowish and grey colouring rather than the bright white and black contrasting skin the pod displayed. The bull's eye patch was also smaller and curved forward rather than parallel to the axis of the body.

The bull was jealous and dangerous. He lacked impulse control and regularly raked the mother with his teeth, leaving long slashes and marks on her skin. The bull himself showed long rake marks on his body and the inference was that his pod (usually the female leads) had abused him similarly. Occasionally the bull would attempt to rake the boy but the mother would intervene and she would be raked instead.

The boy could sense the pain and see the blood floating in the water, but could do nothing to prevent the raking. After a severe bout of raking, he could only swim a little closer to his mother until she recovered a little.

One time the bull was enraged for some reason and rammed the mother orca with a karate jump kick from behind. The boy sat in his room and tried to think of a good gift he could give to his mother. He selected a book of fairy tales and wrapped it in some writing paper.

I luve you mom, he wrote.

The boy orca grew up in this environment until he could no longer tolerate it. The bull tried ramming the boy one day. The boy decided he would draw away the attacker from his mother (since she would likely be the next target) by swimming quickly. The bull chased the boy for a long while and many miles passed.

Eventually the bull gave up and swam back to the pod but the boy kept going. He never came back, although he could sense the vocalisations of the mother for a long time. The boy grew into a bull and joined a different pod. They swam together in peace without raking and ramming and violence.

Was the orca you, dad?

No, they were dolphins.



Once I was walking down the street
down the street
down the street.

A very big elephant I chanced to meet
hi ho hi ho
hi ho.

This elephant, he had very big feet
had big feet
had big feet.

This elephant's feet he showed to me
hi ho hi ho
hi ho.

His feet were stinky and indiscreet

His feet were indiscreet and way janky
hi ho hi ho
hi ho.

I said to him that he should from me retreat
from me retreat
from me retreat.

I said that he should retreat and leave me alone
hi ho hi ho
hi ho.

He got all angry and upset
all upset
all upset.

He got angry and then he killed me
hi ho hi ho
hi ho.

Don't call an elephant any names
any names
any names.

Because if you do you'll end up dead
hi ho hi ho
hi ho.

The frogs hop. It's what they do. Hop, hop, hop.

Hop, said the first.

Hop, hop! commanded the second.

Ribbit, agreed the first.

And so it went. The hop on the start, the hop at the end. On and on, in a long unbroken chain of hops.

Sometimes the hopping came back to where it started, other times it did not. Occasionally the hopping would cross some path where previously one had hopped. On those occasions the frog might stop and consider the hopping that had occurred before or the hopping that had preceded it, or even the hopping that followed later.

Sometimes, not.

Hop is for the weak, the first said.

And so we hop, hopped the second.

You are weak, rejoined the first as they hopped together in unison.

There are mountain goats that live in altitudes so high and slopes so steep that their legs on one side are shorter than the legs on the other side. In this way, the goats can stand perpendicular to a steep slope with the shorter set of legs on the uphill side and the longer set of legs on the downhill side prop up the goat and keeps it from flying into the abyss.

The adaptation works well as long as the sloping trail goes from right to left. The goats thus adapted on the "right" side can all go up one way and down the other.

The problem occurs when a mama goat gives birth to an anomaly: a left baby goat. This presents a problem because the baby is canted dangerously if he lines up head-to-tail with his mother's teats to feed. If he turns around to face the other way (a very dangerous procedure), the goat will head uphill while the mother goes downhill.

Thus they must traverse paths in opposite cants yet still stay in communication. In difficult cases, they can try to edge down or up facing each other, one walking forward and the other backward.

In some cases, the baby will block a path of goats going up while he tries to go down. Retreat is difficult, or impossible. Going forward against the grain of five adults is foolhardy. The mother goat is unable to help or give assistance to her young one as she watches from a different path.

In many of these cases, the young one is carelessly brushed aside by impatient goats on their way to somewhere on the other side of the inconvenient blockage.

The restless pushing can result in the baby goat stumbling and falling a long way down to his death, the bleating of the mother goat echoing off the mountain walls and matching the bleeding of the child goat's tiny heart.

The elder goats file on, their passage thus unimpeded.

The whole behaviour of humanity is despicable and revolting. Nothing new on that topic can be written here.

While they were holding each other tightly for warmth, the first humanity asked the second, tell me it will all be ok.

The second humanity shrugged. The first continued, tell me you'll make everything better.

The second sighed and shifted slightly. The first was indignant. Why won't you fix me, like all the songs and books and movies tell us?

The second humanity looked away distractedly, pulling the first closer to themselves.

If you think that something new was written here, you would be wrong.

The inchworm travels along 2,54 centimetres at a time. He is neither fast nor long but those are outside judgements anyway.

Do you ever feel slighted by the inch designation? queried the interviewer.

The interviewee declined to answer. Instead, he read a page from his favorite author saying, it's not that I don't feel shame or self-loathing or fear, just that it doesn't matter what I feel.

The interviewer pondered this then turned to another and asked, how do you feel about that, mileworm?

The mileworm couldn't hear the question because his head was too far away.

It becomes what it is, noted the first jackal, running. True enough, said the second. They stopped at a crossing. The first sniffed forward. The second sniffed right, then left. Finding nothing amiss, they continued on again.

When the tiger is hungry, he kills and eats, said the first. And then he shits afterwards, agreed the second.

We don't judge the lion, or what forces shape it to kill, said the first, now slightly out of breath. I agree, said the second simply.

They continued on in silence, except for the sounds of panting and claws ticking.

Let's stop and rest, said the first. I'll eat you, said the second jackal who was really, it turned out, a tiger.

It is what it becomes, sighed the first as it died.

Kale is a vegetable, not an animal.

Don't be skerd, said the first lemur.

It took a long while for the reply, but it came eventually. I'm not skerd, the second said. It's eyes were wide and pupils dilated. It held to the tree with a kungfu death grip.

You are skerd, said the first as gently as possible. Come, grab my hand and we'll go together to get the fruit.

You're a liar, said the second with komodo-like venom. You just want me to fall to my death from this tree.

Nonsense, said the first, extending a branch of leaves. The branch was not olive, but that was the metaphor the lemur tried to get convey.

Ok, said the second. I'm still skerd, but I trust you.

The second reached for the proffered branch and tested it.

Go on, said the first, that's it.

The second grasped the branch and gingerly let go of its tree. The branch broke and the second lemur fell to the ground and died.

The first lemur looked at the broken branch in its hand, then looked down at the crumpled form on the ground.

Don't be skerd, the first lemur said to no one.

The moose is ungainly and ugly. Consider his knobby knees, the weighty antlers, and the heavy beard. Look with revulsion upon the broad back, the short tail, and the small beady eyes. Discuss with apprehension the strange wild call and heaving urk urk urk sound he makes when drinking water from a stream.

But don't tell him this to his face. He's an ornery son-of-a-bitch and he'll charge you where you stand. If you are foolish enough to run away, he'll chase you up a tree and keep you pinned up there for 12 hours. He'll call his buddies and they'll hulk around the base of the tree, daring you to come down where they threaten to pound you into the dirt with those ugly hoof shoes from Jimmy Choo's. (They're not really Jimmy Choo's, they're Jimmy Choo knockoffs. Jimmy Choo don't make split-hoof stilettos.)

If you wait long enough, he might forget the insults you hurled regarding his bloodshot and shifty eyes, or his man purse fanny pack and leave from boredom. If you sneak away quietly, he won't realise you're gone and forget about the incident.

However, if you do the same to an elephant, he'll carry the grudge for life.

The nutria is a rodent that swims in the swamps of the bayou down Louisiana way. You'll see him treading water with his little rodent ears peeping above the water, a small wake fanning out behind his self. Another name for nutria is coypu or a swamp beaver, but we don't use them words when we're talking about the nutria. A swamp beaver is actually something that misleads folks like poor old pappy who tried to use the nutria as a beaver, and mama weren't that happy with that. Another popular name is nutra-rat, or nutritious rat. I like rat to eat myself, but we just call it a nutria for short.

The proper way to enjoy nutria is as follows.

First, you get in your boat and you go out to find where the nutria is swimming. You want to find a few of them because you're going to be using their numbers to your advantage. A group of nutria are called a colony. You find you a colony of nutria swimming with their little heads above the water. You cut the engines on your outboard and glide in close to the nutria. Use a paddle for steering, brake, or power if needed. If you have some help from uncle Stewie, let him handle the boat while you get on the side and lean over. If you are alone, make sure you keep some ballast on the other side of the boat.

Take an oar or piece of oak, or maybe even a steer femur and choke up on it pretty close to the head. Raise that pounder up over your head and keep the elbow straight as you can. While looking directly at the head of the closest swimming nutria in the water, swing your arm at the shoulder and simultaneously pull in your elbow. The rotational torque vectors around the shoulder will increase the velocity of the end of your stick. Your elbow will shorten the radius of the circle you're swinging, also adding more velocity and momentum to the club. Allow the choke-up distance on the club to slide out as you swing, adding more distance to the throw while you unlock your wrist and accelerate a torque circle at the vector end of the tangent path of your arm swing.

You should see a large splash and the nutria will disappear. If you missed, you'll see him pop up further away and continue swimming. Try again, or hit one that might be nearer by. However, if you hit him, he will float to the surface on his back. His head should be flatter than my great aunt Thelma's chest.

Take your nutria into the boat and have uncle Stewie drive you back to the house. Your woman will know how to cook up this delicacy. If'n she don't, you can hit her some until she 'members. Or, you can have mama show her how.

When the nutria is prepared for eating, just sit down with your spoon and knife, and enjoy this delicacy!

It is a common misconception that ostriches stick their heads in the sand when faced with danger or uncertainty.

The truth is a bit more interesting and if you'll pay attention, you'll find out how it really works.

First we must conjure up an ostrich. Imagine with me two stout legs about 1,4 metres high attached to a top-heavy mass of body sporting two non-functional wings. Our imaginary ostrich in this instance should be greyscale: blacks and whites tinged grey. Also imagine a supple, flexible neck reminiscent of a snake forming the neck attached to a proportionally small head which rotates hither, thither, and, yon. The head is mostly beak and eyes. The eyes are surrounded by unusually long and attractive eyelashes.

Now imagine the ostrich is presented with a situation that implies danger to the ostrich. The ostrich will move its strong legs and feet in such a way that it will dig a hole approximately 7 centimetres in diameter and 4 hands (40cm) deep. The medium being worked in this manner is sand, by the way. This procedure doesn't work in soil or rocky tableaux.

The ostrich appears to lower its neck and head into this hole to a casual observer. In actual fact, the ostrich is retracting its head into the neck and body portion. Due to the proximity to the hole in the sand, the external observer will be presented with the optical illusion of the head being buried in the sand.

With the head thus retracted, the ostrich will activate its strategic defensive command mode, allowing it to see monitors placed in a full 360 degree view situational awareness console. Engaged in stratdefcommsitac, the ostrich will determine the nature of the threat and react accordingly. The reaction can range from observation to neutralisation.

Neutralisation, once determined and authorised, is accomplished with ground to ground projectiles of depleted uranium explosive rounds.

Once the threat levels are deemed normal, the head is extended while the neck is raised, completing the illusion of the head being retracted from the sand.

The platypus is a Jurassic-era mashup and clearly exemplifies Intelligent Design. Just as Joe Piscopo and Danny Devito are horrific oddities that could only be produced by some cosmic comic genius, the platypus supports the claims of theists everywhere.

Looking in the mirror, the platypus has low self esteem, and begins a pattern of destructive behaviour. The platypus spends time at the bar carousing and drinking to excess. The platypus gets into physical altercations over whose young are born live or whose tail is more functional.

After last call, the platypus will continue its downward spiral by wandering the streets in a rough neighbourhood trying to score a dimebag of some powdery substance. The platypus will also make the acquaintance of prostitutes who offer their service out of a desire for self fulfillment and empowerment, not under duress in a capitalistic and oppressive constitutional republic.

Three prostitutes are acquired thus by the platypus (one for each mammal v. reptile conflicting classification) and they proceed to a motel room to consummate the transaction. A black tea of medicinal psychoactive vines is produced which induces vomiting and a vast awareness of life and the frailty of perception.

The platypus is presented with a review of life experiences, but viewed through a lens of understanding and compassion, which validates all choices and circumstances as valid and happy. The platypus weeps, feels love and unconditional acceptance of itself, and learns a new outlook on life.

Taking this new viewpoint with it as it straggles out the door disheveled from revelry, the platypus moves to Australia and adopts a strange accent and indigenous lifestyle. You can go visit him to this day in his sustainable lifestyle setting, if you can stand the presence of marsupials and that horrible accent everyone has down there.

The quagga is a zebra by any other measure. It looks half horse, half zebra. It has all the bad temperament and nastiness that a zebra has. Quite frankly, we're all a little bit better off that the quagga has fucked off our planet once and for all. In a lot of cases, it is better to remove an asshole from your purview wherever possible. So it is with all fucked up animals like platypus, quagga, and the fucking Seaman from the Sega game.

Whenever you have an asshole in your life, you can take some steps to remove them from your presence. The easiest step to take is to remove yourself from their presence. This method is not only easy to accomplish, it is also legal in most municipalities. The next easiest step is to kill the asshole. This method is slightly more challenging but is limited to places like Florida and Texas. The last "nuclear option" involves making the asshole and all related subspecies relatives extinct.

If God hates assholes (which he does, I assure you), then he can assist in the removal or "extinction level event" that you will implement to remove these vermin from earth. As one example, Florida and Texas (I mean, Sodom and Gomorrah) were full of a bunch of real assholes. Picture a bunch of fat fucks sipping pumpkin spice lattes and vaping idiot thoughts through an e-cig straw. That was what S&G was like. They even had designer e-cig flavours like Stinky Elephant Smegma, Badger and Ocelot Urine, and Three Day Dead Crab, Lobster and Cod. (It is a matter of historical note that the cousins of these assholes later became money changers at the temple in the Jesus days.)

God saw that these assholes were hanging around and if they were able to continue procreating (a difficult feat given their heft and methods of reproduction entry angle), they would eventually grow to take over an area the size of the American South. His Wisdom would not allow Him to have have any of that happen, so He smitened (past tense of smitten) all of them down.

A hippie dude named Lot was allowed to leave but his free loving wife decided she needed to stop at the local Starbucks to get a vanilla-free half-caff skinny foam extra room sea-salt latte. The smitenedness attack of the hand of God did striken the whole place down and so Lot was bummed. Also, God didn't realise that the quagga were living in between those cities and they were smiteneded (past tense of smitened) as well.

As the quagga (and related zebras) were a bunch of assholes anyway, no one minded. Least of all, Lot's wife who had a few head of zebra laying around in the back yard munching her hay.

The moral of the story is: don't be a fucking asshole, asshole.

The rotisserie oven cooks meat evenly and smoothly by spinning the meat about an axis. The exact temperature and speed of rotation should be carefully computed for each use case. In this case, it is used to cook chickens.

First the chicken must be dead. Our parable has killed a lot of living things so far, and I don't believe it is necessary to go into details yet again. Suffice it to say that the chicken has been strangled by a co2 canister unleashed inside an airtight chamber so that the killing is both humane and easy to clean up afterward.

Once the chicken(s) are killed dead, the feathers must be removed. The exact method is gruesome and need not be discussed. First the chicken is dunked head first into boiling water for a few minutes to destroy the follicles that hold the feathers. Then the feathers are removed by pulling them off by a skilled chicken technician who earns a nonliving wage tending to the death and handling of fowl foodstuffs.

After most feathers are removed, a flame is applied directly to the outside of the skin to scorch off any fine hairs and feathers that remain. Now the chicken carcass is smooth, silky and creamy. The carcass is ready to be dressed.

It will be dressed by undressing the inside organs and removing the head. The dear reader will be spared the macabre details. It is enough to mention in passing that the organs are removed from the lower abdominal cavity as well as from the upper cavity once the neck and head are removed.

Incidentally, we are supposed to be making rotisserie chicken, so none of this us strictly germane to our discussion.

Once we have accomplished the above tasks in our procedure, we can now apply a rub to our chicken to prepare it for the fire. The details of the rub and the exact ingredients are secret, but we can reveal that it involves parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Plus salt and pepper to taste. Do not taste an uncooked chicken, however.

Once rubbed down vigorously and skewered carefully on a spit, the chicken is rotated in front of or over a flame. Now the chicken is rotated many times to evenly distribute the heat of the flame to all the exposed and internal meat parts. When the skin is almost crackling and the delicate clear juices run in fragrant rivulets down each supple thigh and breast, the rotisserie chicken is ready to be eaten and enjoyed by all present.

Bon apetit.

The snake is the most subtle of all the animals, and is the embodiment of Satan. At one time, snakes had arms and legs just like you or I. It was also warm blooded and gave birth to live young. Starting at young adulthood, the male snakes would have a thin line of hair form under their noses which they would stroke sagely and occasionally slick down with their long forked tongues.

The snake was also a very proud and vain animal. Several snakes would be chilling out in a garden and they would make fun of the other animals that went along the path. This one was too slovenly, the other too horse-faced, and that one over there crawls on all six legs like a dung beetle.

Whenever Adam and Steve walked by, however, the snakes would hiss and spit their forked tongues and waggle their tails nervously. They were quite upset that these beautiful creatures, full of grace and knowledge of good would have the right hand place in God's creation. So a snake by the name of Lilith who was the most wise and cunning of all snakes literally hatched a figurative plan to bring about the end of Man.

Knowing that Steve frequented a certain fruit tree near the centre of the garden, Lilith sauntered over to talk to him. Steve was next to the tree peeing while sitting down on a specially fashioned seat with a hole in the middle and a cover that raised up and down. Lilith approached Steve casually and started a conversation.

Ssssssssssteve, said Lilith, what do you ssssssssay about learning about both good and evil?

Get behind me, wench, I'll fall not for your charmssssss, said Steve mocking Lilith.

Oh Sssssssssteve, you sssssssssilly boy, said Lilith in her best come hither voice, it'ssssssss not like Adam will know what that you tassssssssted the fruit I'm offering.

Not Adam, fowl [sic. -ed.] temptress, said Steve, I'm talking about the all knowing, all powerful, all seeing, mighty God who created this place and all the inhabitants.

Nonsssssssssenssssssse, hissed Lilith. If he was all ssssssssseeing, he'd already sssssssssee usssssssss now and he'd come down and interrupt our converssssssssation, Lilith said.

He's over there right now talking to Adam, said Steve, pointing.

That'ssssssss right, said Lilith. What do you think they're talking about? The weather?

Hmmmm, said Steve.

What do you sssssssay big boy? asked Lilith, offering the fruit.

It looks positively delish, girlfriend, said Steve. He took the fruit and ate thereof.

Steve now realised he was naked and gay as the figurative scales fell from his literal eyes. The first was remediated by wearing a fig leaf, but the second was more difficult to explain to the conservative Holy Spirit. So Steve hid and Lilith ran off to explain her success to the snake community.

Eventually, Adam came looking for Steve and couldn't find him, so he called out, Steve, where are you lover boy? Steve! Let's play mud wrasling and hide the giant yam!

Steve came out covering his shame in a fig leaf and offered Lilith's fruit to Adam. Adam took the fruit, unaware of the Don't Ask and Don't Dare Tell policy, and he ate thereof. Whereupon Adam realised he was naked and gay, but neither of these facts bothered him. He had been out of the closet for several years and had been in unsuccessful realignment training with God for a few months.

It's OK, said Adam to Steve. Bros before hos, mofos!

And they lived happily ever after, although they did have to find a new garden flat to move to since the Landlord got all upset they ate the fruit from His precious tree.

Lilith eventually was cursed and smited because she was shiftless and lazy. God was upset at her lower productivity standards so that he removed her arms and legs and gave them to the baboon who was seen as an up-and-comer in the evolutionary selection process.

The Jackal and the Tiger live in separate habitats. The jackal prefers dry arid conditions in Africa while the tiger prefers moist jungle ecosystems. Why do you think that is?

To answer our rhetorical question, we happen upon a tiger who was hungry and in search of food. He was on vacation in the Savannah, joining his distant cousins the lions to relax and see the sights.

How nice it would be to eat something salty and tasty, thought the tiger, licking his chops. He had been treated to a nice meal of wildebeest the day before, but was craving something a bit less heavy, more of a amuse bouche like a hyena or perhaps a jackal.

So the tiger hit upon the idea of donning a jackal suit in order to get close enough to a jackal in order to eat a jackal. The problem, as any astute reader can see, is that getting a jackal disguise is not as easy as hopping on the Tube and going to the highstreet to hire a jackal suit.

Not to be dissuaded from the task, and still licking his furry chops, the tiger padded north for a ways until he happened upon some hyenas.

Good day kind sirs, said the tiger.

Good day, sir, said a hyena.

Would any of you happen to have any information on how I could procure a jackal disguise? asked the tiger. For a I am hankering for a bit of strange meat from this location before I travel back to the jungle. I was hoping one of you learned scholars could educate me on the local customs. And here the tiger bowed formally to show a sign of respect.

The lead hyena snarled and responded rudely, firstly sir, we are not scholars. We're blue collar fellows who are uneducated and proud of that status. Secondly, the jackals are our friends (or at least the enemy of our enemies, as Sun Tzu's Art of War and Kautilya's Arthashastra say). And we will not sell out our friends' hide to a foreigner like yourself.

I'll pay handsomely, said the tiger.

Well in that case, you go south east a bit and you'll find several jackals who are weak and defenseless. Good luck finding your size, however, said the lead jackal.

Thank you kindly, said the tiger, who turned to leave.

What about our payment? growled the hyenas.

The tiger ignored them and the hyenas howled loudly. The tiger continued on his way south east and came upon a small family of jackals. The mother jackal was home tending her young.

Good day, madam jackal, said the tiger.

Well met, kind sir, said the mother jackal, gathering her children behind her and looking apprehensively for her husband who was out hunting.

I was wondering where the man of the house might be? asked the tiger.

He's out and we don't want no kind of trouble from foreigners like you, said the mother trying to sound confident.

When do you expect him back? inquired the tiger.

Very soon, said the mother jackal.

Ah, good, said the tiger, leaping on the jackal family in one swoop and killing all of them in a few seconds. Licking his lips and working quickly, the tiger had soon fashioned a suitable jackal suit.

Thus arrayed, the tiger followed a scent of the male out, further toward the south east. He came upon a jackal and quickly fell in step, walking beside the jackal and gaining his confidence.

They talked for a bit and he finally revealed himself as a tiger and ate the jackal.

So that is how the jackal and tiger became enemies to this day.

The uakari are a bald species of monkey who have not heard of Rogaine for Men(tm). Even the female species of the monkey are bald. Fortunately, they are not vain and indeed, the amount of bald area surrounding the face is a sign of seniority among the troops of Cacajao.

After the incident with the lemurs, the older and wiser (and more attractive as well) members of the troop have insisted that the uakari do not help each other using branches. Instead, they have fashioned vines which are woven together and then subjected to engineering tests. If the vine strands can withstand a break force of 100N/cm^2 then they are approved for use by uakari.

A lemur who was grieving over the process had a psychotic break with reality and sabotaged several vines by soaking them in vinegar. A group of uakari had rigged a vine rope strand to climb a particularly difficult part of a tree and the vine broke, killing 3 souls and injuring 2 more.

In a famous documentary about velociraptors[1], it was noted that the attack from a velociraptor does not come from the front, but from the sides where you least expect it. This is a story that explains how this occurs and what you can learn from such information.

One day the velociraptor was ambling down the street, taking in the sights and sounds of Lower Manhattan (which wasn't Lower Manhattan yet). He happened upon a small chicken-sized bird (which wasn't a bird in the strict modern sense) and decided to eat it.

Wait, said the chicken-sized bird, who could speak perfect English (although it wasn't English yet). Don't eat me, said the chicken-sized bird, for I will tell you a story full of wonder and strange things that will make you believe in God!

I don't believe you, said the velociraptor. However, he was intrigued enough to sit down and listen.

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far, away, said the chicken-sized animal, a group of rebels...

Wait! exclaimed the velociraptor, I've heard this one before.

Oh, said the chicken-sized bird. That's bad. For me.

The velociraptor nodded.

Look over there! pointed the chicken-sized bird. The velociraptor glanced over his shoulder (which wasn't a shoulder in the anthropomorphic sense).

The velociraptor looked back and the chicken-sized bird was gone. Goddammit, cursed the velociraptor.

Suddenly the chicken-sized bird came out from behind the fern he was hiding behind. I told you I would make you believe in God, said the chicken-sized bird.

You scoundrel, cursed the velociraptor. From now on, I'mma distract you whilst my friends attack you from the side, thus proving the point of this story promised by the narrator!

Nanner nanner, said the chicken-sized bird as it ran away, flipping the bird over its shoulder.

[1] Jurassic Park, S. Spielberg et. al.

The woolly mammoth trudged for miles through the white endless desolation of his soul. His fervent lovemate had been run off a cliff by some hairy bipeds throwing rocks and sticks. He had found what remained of her carcass at the bottom of a rocky cliff and had trumpeted his grief to the indifferent moon.

The woolly mammoth was near death and content to wander until the door to the other world presented itself. His once magnificent coat was dull and tangled by the miserable wandering. His once huge, strong frame was reduced to strings and gaunt bones by the grief filled trek.

The woolly mammoth struggled up one last ice incline and noticed a good dying spot in the dirty lee on the other side. From the mud and dirt hill rose a single green stalk topped by a precious single white flower. The woolly mammoth sat wearily and grasped the flower with his proboscis.

He sat silently considering this beauty for a while. At last he thoughtfully put the flower in his mouth and munched, then swallowed weakly.

She loves me, he sighed.

She loves me not, he cried.

He laid down his head and, sobbing, died with undigested flower in his gullet.

The armadillo[1] rolls into a ball when threatened. This strategy is designed to protect the armadillo by protecting it from harm in two ways. The first way it helps is by making the armadillo seem dead and uninteresting to a potential predator. The second way this helps is by covering any vulnerable parts that are critical to the functioning and health of the armadillo.

So it is a common sight in Texas and New Mexico that a driver in a car approaching an armadillo crossing the road will see the armadillo curl up into a neat ball and lay on the road as if dead. Naturally, the armadillo's hard armour is no protection against a 1 tonne vehicle with steel-belted tyres.

The armadillo is not limited to Texas, however, and can be seen as far away as Tennessee and Virginia. Oftentimes when the armadillo is being smashed into a grey splash on the hot asphalt, the last thought in the armadillo's small mind is, all my exes live in Texas...

[1] the xenurines in this story are very similar to the North American armadillos except that these xenurines do not jump like their cousins do. It can be confusing to the lay reader because they look exactly the same, live in exactly the same areas, and have the exact same names. If it helps, think of these xenurines as "Pascadillos".

The yak is a sound you make when you vomit. In the vernacular, it is the verb meaning to vomit.

There are other euphemisms, like "blow chunks", "make choad", "pray at the porcelain altar", "create the orange rainbow", "puke your guts out", "to upchuck", and so forth.

There was a T-shirt I saw once that quizzed, "Which of these is not a yak?" There were four choices: a stick figure falling down stairs, a stick figure vomiting squiggly lines from its mouth, a stick figure with X's for eyes and a tongue lolling sideways, and a yak figure with curly horns and crossed arms.

The back of the shirt answered that it was the last option because the last option "is a water buffalo." In other words, not a yak.

Man, fool, that's racist yo, said the quagga.

It's not, said the zebra.

It do be racist, yo, laying down beats like that instead of having the respect and resoluteness to address me like a brother, said the quagga.

Resoluteness? laughed the zebra. He got high twos from other zebras standing around.

Man, that ain't cool. That's just disrepectful, said the quagga.

We aren't brothers either, said the zebra. We're both black and white, it's true, but you've got that strange shading like a goddamned horse.

Man, I kick yo ass some time you mention horse around me again black and white motherfucker! said the quagga.

Ok, ok, lay me down some of your so-called beats, said the zebra, making airhoof marks in the air around the word beats.

Man, I ain't playing with you, dog. You just trying to call me out, said the quagga.

No, no, seriously. You said my beats were racist. Lay yours down fool, said the zebra to more laughter at the airhooves around the word fool.

A'ight, said the quagga.

Don't be no mean feats
with my feets
For my beats
to avoid predators who
eats my meats
without any wheats
in the Saharan heats
And my brothers acting
all 'leets like they's running REITs
dissin' and doggin'
to make me retreats
I ain't one to be defeats

The zebras, meanwhile, laughed so hard they fell down and rolled around on the ground whinnying. A tiger on vacation approached and ate the last standing rapper quagga. The zebras, gathering their composure, quickly ran away.

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