I couldn’t resist.

Adria Richards at But You’re a Girl, a great technology blog, recently wrote about how animals don’t react to stress the way humans do.  When zebras are faced with a stressful situation, such as lions at their watering hole, they leave.  They don’t hang around to, as she said, “complain to other Zebras about the lion showing up, call up more Zebras on the phone as backup or whip out their Zebra pocket knives to shank the lion.”

I, of course, thought, “But what if they did?”  And so, intrepid visitors, read on to find out what happens when zebras and iPhones mix.

It was a peaceful morning on the savanna of Dodge, and the zebras meandered down to their favorite watering hole, the one with minimal pond scum and sweet green grass. The water sparkled in the sun and the fish splashed happily … until the delightful scene darkened under the shadow of a vicious lion pride!

Cleve the Zebra was a leader and seldom left things to chance. He had resources and he knew how and when to use them. At the first sight of the lions (“flea-ridden monstrosities,” as he thought of them) immediately reached for his iPhone and spoke, allowing the auto-dial to complete the number. He relaxed slightly at the sound of his adviser’s polite, professional voice. “Chrissy!” he shouted. “There are lions at this watering hole! They could totally snap our tender bones between their powerful jaws, sucking out our marrow and leaving our skeletons to bleach in the sun! What should we do?” He nodded. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Ok, thanks.” He looked up to the herd of cowering zebras, who fixated fearfully on the felines. A lioness glanced over and flipped her tail disinterestedly, sending the group into paroxysms.

Cleve knew he had to take charge lest hysteria rule the watering hole. He stood straight and snapped, “Ok, listen! I contacted Chrissy, who is a masters-level specialist in zebra-lion relations. She suggested that we call for backup. We prepared for this, remember? Who has the contact tree?”

But while their emergency plan had seemed adequate when the Preparedness Committee had created it, zebra hooves are not especially conducive to dialing numbers on fancy phones. Without the ease of voice-dialing pre-programmed numbers, the plan fizzled. Expensive phone screens shattered and incorrect numbers were dialed. Cleve groaned as he listened to the ensuing mayhem.

“Hello, Atticus? What? No … no I don’t want to order a pizza. I’m sorry. I dialed a wrong number. But wait, did you say that anchovy pesto gorgonzola pizzas were half price today? Ok, so what’s your delivery range? Your vehicles are insured against lions, right?”

“Marion? Oh, I do apologize, I was trying to reach … I’m sorry, what? A dating service, you say, for wild and frisky savanna mammals? Hmm … not that I’d be interested in such a thing, but if I were …”

“Hello?  Hello?  Hold on, I got a text–”

“Belinda, help! We have … oh, my apologies, I certainly didn’t mean to dial up the Mormon temple. Well, yes, of course I’ve heard of Jesus Christ, but— made lions lay down with lambs, you say? Really? How much does he charge for this service? If the lambs were to be replaced with zebras, would there be a substitution fee?”

Cleve tossed his phone into the pond. “Useless piece of unnecessarily expensive technology!” he grumbled. He glanced surreptitiously towards the flea-ridden monstrosities otherwise known as “lions.” They were momentarily satiated, if the piles of gazelle corpses nearby were any indicators. He sighed. Those corpses wouldn’t just walk off–they’d be littering the watering hole for ages, ruining the stylish Zen ambiance with an ill-advised gothic look. He supposed the jackals would start showing up at night soon, decorating the skeletons with black lights and bat wings. The thought made him determined to avert this crisis.

“New tactic!” he shouted.

Merv, who was Vice President of the Preparedness Committee, looked up excitedly. “Say, there’s this Jesus fellow who might be able to help. Sort of a hypnotist, I think, specializes in lions.” Excited discussion followed, but it was determined that this “Jesus” had been dead for years and that lions would probably not feel threatened by an insubstantial ghost.

“New tactic!” shouted Cleve again. But the zebras were huddled around the lone surviving iPhone, looking at personal ads on the “Savanna Hookup Love Meet” website and munching on pizza. Pizza? He noticed a young pizza delivery driver speeding away and looking nervously over his shoulder. The useless bastards! He thought. Give them some junk food and empty promises of getting laid, and look what happens.

The lions– their gluttonous food-coma wearing off– were growing increasingly interested in the noisy zebra herd. Cleve fretted. What to do? Was he the only zebra who gave a damn any more about the safety of the herd?

Suddenly, a scream rang throughout the grassland! Elwin, the reclusive zebra obsessed with survivalism and planetary doom (and the lone zebra who refused an iPhone), was charging the pride of lions. In his mouth was a sharpened stick. It was hard to make out what he was screaming, but it sounded a bit like “Gonna shank you, fascist punks!”

For a moment, the herd was distracted from their vices. They cheered— finally, a defender who would do something! But then the lions turned as one to face the charging zebra, and the scene turned horribly wrong. All members of the herd closed their eyes in horror, except for Merv, who held up the iPhone to capture the gory demise on video. “Oh of course I won’t post it online,” he muttered in response to the outraged protests of his companions. “This is for … um … science. The, uh … science of shanks.”

Defeated, the zebras simultaneously flopped down in the grass. “That’s it,” someone sighed. “They’ll pick us off one by one over the next few months and in the meantime, our watering hole will be infested by goth jackals and thrill-seekers.”

“We could come here only in the afternoons,” another zebra suggested. “You know, hang out part time and reduce our risk.” But no one thought that hanging around part time to get eaten was significantly different than their current situation.

“We could kill ourselves now,” suggested someone. Silence spread as the zebras considered this possibility. It would certainly cut short on the waiting time and pain. Rather proactive, really, Cleve mused. They could hold their heads underwater until they drowned–

Something tickled in his mind as he saw one of the lions lithely get up. What was it? Something about … being … pro … pro-something …actually doing something to effect change in the desired manner …

“I GOT IT!” he hollered. “We can run away! RUN!”

He ran a few steps before realizing that there was no thunder of hooves behind him. He turned and saw the herd sitting quietly and looking at him, puzzled, as the lions grew closer.

“Look,” he said, “we have control over this situation. We don’t have to just react helplessly to a fate we didn’t choose. We can deal with this threat right now! There are other watering holes out there, ones that don’t have lions! They might even be better than this hole!”

“Not possible,”Merv said staunchly. “Best grass here, no pond scum. And now we know it’s got pizza delivery service, too.” The rest of the zebras nodded in agreement.

“But you haven’t even seen what’s out there! NO LIONS, people! Isn’t that worth the chance? What’s the worse that can happen? We spend a few weeks at a watering hole with grass that isn’t as great?”

The zebras gazed skeptically at him, holding their pizza crusts protectively. “But we have pizza now! It would be stupid to leave.”

Cleve groaned. “No lions, people! No lions! Come on, now, run! Forget your fancy technology and your pizza and RUN!”

And as the lions finally reached the pride and descended with teeth and tawny fur upon the herd, a precious few understood what Cleve was trying to say and they got the hell out of Dodge.

The moral of the story, dear readers, as Adria informs us, is “Don’t hang around waiting to be eaten.” Think of your soul. Your nice, sweet soul. Who’s trying to eat it? And why aren’t you walking away?

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Self-Improvement // Add Comment »

Recently I went through The Writer’s Market, the famous directory of magazines and newspapers accepting freelance submissions. It was most educational. In the event of Splarks.com ever becoming an independent small press, I will craft and save the following entry for the Writer’s Market:

SPLARKS PRESS
Email: BegForConsideration@splarks.com. We review unsolicited submissions quarterly. During these times, we crowd into our hip, overpriced loft office and feast on trendy takeout and wine from a country you probably can’t place geographically. We read your submission aloud and point out all your editing errors. If we can’t find any, we’ll make some up so that everyone else in the room will admire our sharp eye. Then we will denounce your work as loathsome tripe and invent phrases of derogatory terms to apply to your writing technique, which is unrefined, banal, and obtuse. On slower months, we go to the rooftop garden and bring an easel and charcoal pencils. We then sketch the loser that we imagine you to be, based on your horrific attempts at writing. Invariably, your portrait will resemble a crazy cat lady, a dour parking lot attendant, or creepy children’s television show host. Finally, we will build a little fire in our sink or the rooftop fire pit and ceremoniously toss in the crumpled pages of your manuscript.

Nonfiction: We love confessionals and memoirs, as they help us further determine your pathetic approach to living. We are particularly interested in your failure of a love life, high school trauma from which you have not yet recovered, parents who never loved you, and your quaint loss of religious faith. We love hearing about the Self as a Lame Stereotype, which is likely all you’re capable of writing.

Fiction: Send us genre fiction with the hero or heroine thinly-disguised as you. Please spell “heroine” wrong; it amuses us. Unlike those other literary magazines that claim to accept only the best of contemporary fiction, we take only crap since no one but we and our favored associates can write well. Go on, send us your hackneyed blathering.

Poetry: Please don’t send rhyming poetry typical of greeting cards–it’s too easy to criticize. Challenge us! Try to really touch our hearts and make us feel something. That’s always so hilarious.

Tips: Don’t query us about the status of your manuscript or ask when the next issue will be published. Please refer back to this entry for the answers, which are “We burned it in the sink, and then Pablo drunkenly puked on the ashes,” and “As nothing meets our standards for quality literature, the journal will not be published. Again.”

Tags: Random Amusement // 1 Comment »

Sometimes I just have to amuse myself by writing a dreadful story. The urge arises spontaneously, clawing to be released to torment others.  This is why an early story of mine called “Lars the Pig with No Skin” is infamous among certain circles.  The Chitin Kitten emerged from the depths of my mind because Dave, who likes to rhyme words unnecessarily, put the words together.  Except “chitin” doesn’t actually rhyme with “kitten.”  But what do I care?

***

I wish Allie from Hyperbole and a Half would illustrate this.  Read her blog about the Alot and the Emo Kid.  Maybe you’ll laugh as hard as I did.  Well ok, the Emo Kid only makes a cameo, but I love his scene with the Alot.

Also, vote in the comments whether you love the Chitin Kitten, or if you want will forever pine for your lost two minutes.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Rampaging // 1 Comment »

“You know,” Dave says thoughtfully as we park in front of the library, “sometimes eating fruit really creeps me out.”

“Why’s that?” I ask.

My friends, I regret my innocent query.  You see, plants, animals, minerals, and various other elements have lived together in harmony for all of time.   Dave explains how most plants reproduce by creating a fruit of some kind, and they sneakily put a seed or twenty inside the sweet, tasty flesh.

“So we’re eating their babies,” says Dave earnestly.

“Well yes,” says I, impatient to pick up my book.  ”But it’s actually a way of spreading the seed.  Animals eat the fruit and carry the seed to other locations so that it can grow.”

“If they swallow the seeds and if crap on the ground so the seed can take root.  We throw the seeds in the garbage.  No one craps on the ground anymore.  We use toilets.  We’re flushing  away their babies.  They’ll never grow in the sewers!”

“Unless you are a hippie and you have a compost pile,” I say, thinking of Chupacabra, my worm bin.  ”Or an even bigger hippie and you have a composting toilet.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he insists.  ”We’re not fulfilling our part of the bargain.  They give us fruit, and we flush it down the toilet to die.”

I am silent.  One cannot argue with such logic.  I imagine living as primitivists and backpackers do.  My butt feels cold just thinking about it.

“This needs to be a Splarks story,” he declares.  ”The vegetable kingdom will rise up against the human race and demand vengeance for not crapping on the ground!”

And I think about it.  Oranges using psychic powers to explode toilets and such.  But in the end I decide to let the idea speak for itself and go into the library to get my “Expanding your Serenity with Qigong” book, which is blissfully unconcerned with my personal hygiene habits.

I eat dried jackfruit slices later that evening.  Poor jackfruit babies.  I feel bad for denying you a grown-up jackfruit life, but it’s cold out there and the neighbors already think I’m weird enough.

***

Check out Urban Scout for one of my favorite re-wilding modern primitivists.  He does his best to live a hunter-gatherer lifestyle in Oregon, encountering all sorts of weird obstacles that could only exist in modern life.  He also looks cute in a loincloth … OMG did I type that out loud?

My friends Kat and Alan also have an awesome farm, Sunflower River,  in New Mexico with not only a compost heap, but a composting toilet or two.  They also have handmade yurts, a huge vegetable garden, fruit trees, a fancy DIY rabbit hutch and goat pen, and a solar-powered water pump.  I have fabulous friends.  Perhaps they will be spared during the Vegetable Revolution.

Tags: Based on a True Story, Random Amusement // 4 Comments »

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril, Zombie Attack // Add Comment »

Bloggers and journalists insist that people love to read lists.  I know several confirmed “list-o-holics” and to tell the truth, I am enamored of the bullet point list, myself.  Lists, particularly Top 10 lists, appeal to people with short attention spans,  to those who want relevant information without all the filler words, and to those who hate thinking for themselves.

Therefore, I will embark on this list journey because I am told that you, dear readers, will love it.  You’ll notice that in my title, I said I’d explain the top ten reasons for why I stopped writing stories and making lists.  This is a dreadfully sinful LIE.

1. Once upon a time, there was a chicken. It danced in the moonlight. (Go on, you might as well check out List Item #2; it may be relevant)

2. It attracted the attention of some nearby gorillas.

3. The gorillas, being more powerful than the chicken, considered biting its head off and consuming it for a snack.

4. Then they realized that because the chicken was so small and there wasn’t enough for all of them, they’d have to fight each other for the chicken.

5. Given that fighting is a pain in the ass, and lying in the grass scratching one’s butt is easier, they decided to ignore the chicken.

6. The chicken continued its avian ballet, unaware of its brush with death.

7. A clever reader asked, “Why exactly would a chicken dance in the moonlight? Wouldn’t it be in a coop somewhere?  And chickens don’t really dance, do they?”

8. The author, in the interest of artistic expression for poultry (won’t somebody please think of the chickens?), had to clobber the reader, duct-tape his mouth shut, and shove him in a closet.

9. The chicken, frightened by the unexpected clobbering noise, fled the scene.

10. The gorillas cried, for they had been enjoying the graceful dance of the chicken.

11. The sun rose mournfully in a cold gray sky over an empty field. A mime dropped a rose.

12. This story was made into a film and won awards at the Sundance festival because of its innovation and embodiment of all the qualities of a good independent film.

13. The author’s readers sent hate mail because not only had the author subjected them to a stupid story that mercilessly consumed a tiny portion of their lives, but because the author had also lied about the number of list items. Also, the film was totally different than the story and that was like, a total sell out.

14. Devasted by the harsh words, the author committed suicide.

15. The author’s spirit woke up in a world where happy rainbow unicorns pranced about. Nice flower fairies made her a princess outfit out of rose petals. She was satisfied by hearing the sad thoughts of those who sent the mean letters: “I’m really sorry now that she is dead. It’s all my fault that she killed herself. I am truly a pathetic excuse for a human being.”

16. All the mean people felt so bad that they killed themselves, too. They showed up in the afterlife alongside the author.

17. Forced to accomodate the influx of contrite people, the rainbow unicorns left her. The flower fairies made everyone else princess outfits, too. The mean people, feeling much better about themselves now that they were princesses, went back to writing hate mail and leaving it where the author could find it.

18. She tried to kill herself again.

19. Turns out you can only kill herself once.

20. There is no happy ending to this story. The moral is: don’t think “they’ll be sorry when I’m dead!” and kill yourself, because they might feel so sorry about it all that they’ll kill themselves, too, and then they’ll be there to annoy you for all eternity. Defiantly keep on writing pointless stories simply to amuse yourself. You can buy princess outfits at the costume store, anyway. It’s not like flower fairies have a monopoly on the costume industry.

THE END

—————-

The fabulous fairy doll in the photo above is titled “Rude Obnoxious Fairy” and can be found at www.off-with-the-fairies.com.

COMMENT, DAMN IT!

Tags: Mythological Mishaps, Repentance & Wailing // 2 Comments »

Apparently life is imitating art. My last story involved the tragic death of a squirrel who haunted the forest and spooked hikers in mean-spirited glory for all eternity. And while taking a leisurely hike on my favorite trail last week, what did I see but … seriously… a very dead squirrel perched on a branch, most definitely not sleeping. I, of course, was spooked. It looked kinda Blair Witch-y.

My friends, this means it’s time to write a much more strategic story while Life is still enjoying imitating my Art.

Once upon a time–like now– there is a lass in Colorado who writes silly animal stories. Trifles, really, but they bring laughter to a small segment of the amusement-deprived population. She is incredibly attractive, witty, and a fabulous piano player with unparalleled creative genius. Her charming tales delight and inspire all who read! Some suitably hip and quirky famous person (oh, don’t make me name names) gets a copy of ”Ulrich the Tooth Goblin” and loves it so much that he instructs all his/her Twitter followers and blog readers to check out her website.

And while the website enjoys massive popularity, a publisher makes his/her entrance and sets up the lovely young lady for riches beyond all imagining.  But who cares about that–a time traveler appears at her bedroom door (which is now overlooking a peaceful tropical beach due to all that stupendous wealth)! Our handsome time traveling friend says, “Let’s cruise through time and space to see sights no human has ever  witnessed!” She returns full of inspiring stories based on her travels and the alien species and customs she has witnessed. A wild kundalini awakening occurs! She visits New Zealand! She performs on stage with Steve Kilbey! She knocks back drinks with Grant Morrison! She goes hiking with Thich Nhah Hanh! She is the perfect picture of health and develop such awesome martial arts skills that all Evil People cower in their presence. In fact, their very awesomeness prompts all Evil People to question their motives and experience profound existential crises.

She plants a garden that astounds all with its magnificent abundance, and feeds the homeless with the fruits of her labor! And at no point does the garden wither and die. No. No it does not. In fact, she barely has to look at the garden and it’s throwing vegetables around like a peasant at a public hanging there’s no tomorrow. She and her lovely friends and family lounge in the exquisite garden all day, eating grapes, raspberries, and cherry tomatoes and having scintillating conversation. Sometimes the fruit is consumed via cheesecake. Absolutely no one gets porky due to frequent cheesecake consumption.  This is a welcome development because cheesecake and World Peace go great together, and World Peace is exactly what happens. Seven months and two days after her amazing rise to power, everyone on the planet bites into a delicious piece of cheesecake (because she is wealthy enough to supply all 6-7 billion people on Earth with a slice*) and realizes that they no longer need to act like jackasses! They all develop a gentle form of telepathy which prevents misunderstandings, and the crime rate drops dramatically. Rappers no longer sing about how they will put a cap in yo’ ass. Hippies start dressing in less offensive color combinations. Indie kids realize the folly of faux trucker hats. These changes in pop culture might have something to do with the powerful influence of her new alien friends, who dress in shiny silver suits and listen to concertos played on brainwave-controlled invisible instruments.  They have discerning tastes.

Furthermore, everyone who has ever killed another person in the name of religion wakes up and goes, “Holy crap, why did I believe such asinine stuff? I would rather spend the rest of my life baking cookies, cookies that bear no trace of arsenic, God’s Wrath, Satan’s hellfire or evil hexes.”

Oh yeah, and climate change stops, pollution-causing technology is swiftly replaced by environmentally-sustainable tech, and people begin living to a longer age and procreating more responsibly. Children are no longer succumbing to boredom and depression in school because some brilliant teacher actually figured out how to make learning fun, and everyone just loves being alive. Even Charles Manson no longer has an urge to kill. Instead, he develops a passion for scuba diving and devotes the rest of his life to protecting coral reefs. There aren’t many prisons anymore because of the staggering drop in crime, but Charles still needs some supervision.  That’s what the dolphins are for.

Yeah.

Yeah, that’s what happens. Come on, Life, you can do better than a dead squirrel. I wanna see the delights of time and space, and Charles Manson singing Kumbaya with Flipper! In fact, here is a picture to help you get started.

Charles Manson and a Dolphin Singing Kumbaya

And in case you need help envisioning cheesecake, Life, here is a song that explains why cheesecake is so awesome.

I love you, Life.

——————

This is your chance to make life imitate your art, too.  Maybe by reading this story, it will rub off on you, too.  What are you going to create?

I love comments.  If you comment, a little love goes to you!“

Tags: Based on a True Story, Mythological Mishaps, True Weirdos // 1 Comment »

Dorcas was a squirrel. Yes, my snickering, adolescent readers, Dorcas is indeed a legitimate name and means “gazelle” in Greek. Terribly unfortunate name for a squirrel, eh? The little rodents ares are short and stocky, with none of the long-legged gracefulness of a gazelle. Poor Dorcas. She was predestined for school-yard bullying simply by bearing this name.

Ever notice how so many Splarks stories feature downtrodden scapegoats who eventually transcend their handicaps? Inspiring with its can-do attitude, Splarks brings you tales of optimism and personal revelation…except for this story about Dorcas the Squirrel.

Rather than serving as the town pariah, Dorcas was the squirrel equivalent of the alpha bitch in your high school. You know that chick whose mom gave her hundreds of dollars to spend on haircut and highlights and delighted in making fun of girls with inexpensive clothes? In squirrel terms, this meant that Dorcas had the glossiest fur you’ve ever seen on a squirrel. Remember that girl who lived in the ritziest house in town because her dad was a celebrity attorney, and she mentioned this fact whenever possible? Dorcas’s dad lived in the tallest oak tree in the meadow, and it produced the largest acorns ever. However, Dorcas, concerned about weight gain, refused to eat them.

“Dorcas,” her mom scolded, “you need to eat! Winter is coming and if you haven’t fattened up, you’ll starve to death.”

Dorcas rolled her eyes. It was her mother’s seventh “You’re Gonna Die!” speech of the week. “Whatever, Mom. Nobody likes a fat squirrel.”

Dorcas was tragically misinformed. A perusal of National Geographic photos and various Animal Picture of the Day websites shows that fat squirrels are universally lauded as adorable. Pudgy squirrels are so popular that people buy squirrel feeder kits. Chubby little squirrel cheeks and fat white squirrel bellies adorn greeting cards everywhere. In fact, when I see a skinny squirrel in late October, I’m always sure to shout “Hey, squirrel! Why aren’t you chowing down?” to encourage it.*

But Dorcas was young and had not yet experienced a winter. Her mother spoke of Mother Nature throwing cold whiteness from the skies, shriveling the leaves on the trees and turning the creeks hard. Food would not grow, she said, and the world would grow cold.

Dorcas thought this was a load of hooey.

“That’s retarded,” snorted Dorcas.

“Dorcas! That’s not a politically correct word!” Her mother worked with mentally challenged rodent babies and disapproved of such language. “I’m warning you: don’t doubt Mother Nature’s wisdom. Eat!”

But Dorcas had already flounced off to her drey, which is squirrel-terminology for “nest.” Little did she know of the travails she would soon face.

And here, I have two choices. I can take a J.R.R. Tolkein approach to describe travails and write 80 pages of “And the small brown squirrel trudged the deep snow. For days she did not eat for there was no food to be found, and her belly grumbled and her step grew weak.” My other option is to summarize in an Earnest Hemmingway style, such as “Winter came. Snow fell. No nuts grew on the tree. She thought of the summers in France.” Because this is somewhat of a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure story, you get to pick and imagine that I wrote whatever you prefer.

When spring came again, just as her mother said it would, Dorcas shakily exited her squalid nest. She ate all that she could find, and reflected on her ordeal. Her mother had been correct about this “Mother Nature” and her cruelty. This must not happen again. Mother Nature must be stopped!

For the first time in her life, Dorcas had a purpose beyond ridiculing squirrels with less shiny fur, talking to boys, and being skinny. She had a new goal: to seek revenge on Mother Nature! She collected sticks and sharpened them with her teeth. She scoured the forest floors for poisonous plants. She learned judo and created a garrote from the spines of weeds. She would teach Mother Nature a lesson about killing off food unnecessarily!

And here, I would like to tell you that Dorcas eventually found Mother Nature, learned about the cycle of the seasons, and came to peace with the necessity of eating and the regenerative purpose of winter. But you must know Splarks better than that by now. Intent on destroying Mother Nature, Dorcas roamed the countryside for a few days in righteous anger. However, her rage quickly dissipated when she found a group of young squirrels who lived behind a moonshine farm. They partied incessantly, and Dorcas soon lost her purpose in a frenzy of binge drinking and casual sexual relations. Squirrel experts may frown and point out the solitary nature of squirrels, and suggest that they do not “party” together. But Dorcas and her friends were trend-setters, refusing to conform to outdated assumptions of squirrel behavior.

Five months later, she found herself with a noisy brood of baby squirrels, whose father had conveniently dumped her for some stupid black-furred squirrel two counties away. She was fat, miserable, and winter was approaching yet again. Mother Nature was still not dead. Dorcas had failed in her quest.

Clinging to the last sad scrap of her great mission in life, Dorcas felt there was no other option but to kill herself. She dropped off her children with the babysitter, then went to the nearest country road. When the next rumbling metal beast appeared, she leaped in front of it, dying instantly. A nearby crow rejoiced over her tasty corpse.

The problem with suicide is that death is a sacred transition between this world and the next. When one enters the afterlife in a despondent, angry, or otherwise rotten state, these unresolved emotions cause the unfortunate soul to wander hopelessly until luck intervenes, or Mother Nature takes pity and rescues him or her.

Do you think Mother Nature was going to rescue Dorcas? No, Mother Nature was not inclined to assist the murderous, particularly when the object of the murderous desire was Mother Nature herself. And so Dorcas wandered the forest for eternity. She haunted her living peers and frightened hikers with her ghostly interludes. Always, always she longed for just one acorn.

It is a tragic tale, isn’t it? If only Dorcas had eaten the acorns as her mother wished! If only she had not been such a bitch to Mother Nature! If only she had migrated to Arizona or Florida for the winter. If only she had chosen to live!

But you see, Dorcas was strangely happy in her new muddled state. Deep down, she was arrogant and disrespectful and loved making people feel bad. Therefore, what could be more fun than frightening people for all eternity, watching them cower in fear before her ghostly apparition? I’ll tell you what: nothing. Haunting was her most joyous activity, and oh, how she enjoyed it! Winter’s chill could not touch her. And best of all, she never had to eat another nut again. Oh sure, she longed for them, as I stated above, but that was because she wished she could throw them at unsuspecting hikers. She had truly made the most of her situation, and no other squirrel was so happy in a phantom existence.

THE END

*I really do. I have had many conversations with squirrels as I try to imitate their strange clicking and squeaking language. I suspect I’m saying something horrifically insulting, because they always freeze in shock, screech at me for a few moments, then stalk off.

Interesting squirrel fact: The Ratufa is a giant squirrel that can grow to 3 feet in length. Given that the squirrels around here sometimes throw nuts at me when I’m hiking, I shudder to think of this thing.

Interesting squirrel pop culture:  Check out Foamy the Squirrel for another bitchy squirrel with an inappropriate attitude.

Have any other squirrel humor favorites?  Comment below.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Random Amusement // 3 Comments »

Once upon a time, a gentle troll named Steve lived under a stone bridge on the outskirts of a small Wisconsin farming community.  He cared for the bridge each day, sweeping away debris and mending the wobbly parts.  The lowing cattle and singing birds soothed his soul, and it would have been paradise except for one problem:  those troublesome goats.

They called themselves “the Goats Gruff” and regularly harassed him and nearby forest animals.  At first only Frederick, the youngest goat, came to shout insults.  “Hey troll!” he shouted from his side of the bridge.  “Scared any babies today with that ugly face?”

Initially, Steve tried to educate the young goat.  “Bridge trolls don’t associate with babies,” he explained patiently, dismissing the goat’s glare as youthful arrogance.  “We stay with our bridges and socialize with the forest animals.  You’re probably thinking of goblins.  They’re known for tormenting small children.”  He wished this Gruff gang would invest in their personal hygiene – the barnyard stink was unbearable.

“Whatever,” sneered the young goat.  “Let me over the bridge.  I want the grass over there.”

“I’m happy to allow you to cross once you pay the toll,” said Steve pleasantly.  “But I’ve snacked on the grass from both sides, and I can tell you that the flavor is about the same.  You don’t need to waste your money.”

“Toll?” the young goat sputtered.  “I ain’t paying no toll!”

“It’s a historic site,” Steve explained, growing annoyed.  “The community toll helps maintain the bridge and pay for the cost of repairs and preventive maintenance.  I’m afraid you’ll have to eat the grass on your own side of the bridge if you can’t pay the toll.”

“There ain’t no grass on this side anymore!  We ate it all!”

“All of it?” Shocked, he fell silent.  How could three goats eat entire fields full of grass?  Did they have some sort of glandular disorder which caused them to overeat?  He scrutinized the young goat, who did look a bit pudgy.

“Loser!” snorted the goat.  “I’ll be back with my big brother, who’ll teach you a lesson!”   He stomped off, kicking dirt onto the freshly-swept bridge.

“What was that guy’s problem?” said Steve’s friend, Angelo the Muskrat.  He’d popped his head out of his lodge when he heard the ruckus.

“I don’t know,” sighed Steve.  “Probably just an ignorant kid with nothing better to do.”

But as the weeks went by, Frederick’s behavior worsened.  His insults grew more vulgar, his dirt-kicking more deliberate and targeted at the hardest-to-clean spots.  One day when Steve, Angelo, and Geraldine the Pheasant were having a Sunday picnic, a larger, unfamiliar goat appeared.  He didn’t say much as towered and glowered at the foot of the bridge.

Not wanting to inconvenience a customer, Steve leaped to his feet.  “Can I help you?” he asked, brushing the crumbs from his belly.  Then his shoulders sagged;  he saw Frederick lurking smugly behind the new goat.

“Lemme over the bridge!”  shouted the big goat.

“Please!” said Steve.  “There’s no need to shout.  You’re disturbing the wildlife.”  Geraldine did indeed look distraught as she hid behind the picnic basket.  “I’m happy to let you cross if you pay the 75 cent toll.”

“I’m Bartholomew Gruff, and I don’t pay no tolls!”

“Tell him there’s a fine from the Department of Transportation if he refuses to pay,” whispered Angelo, who had joined Geraldine behind the picnic basket.

“Sir, there’s a one hundred dollar fine if you don’t pay the toll,” Steve sighed.

The goat stomped his hoof on the ground.  “They can’t make me pay a fine!”

“Actually, they can,” said Steve.  “You just told me your name and I know perfectly well where you live.  The city has a “Green Mowing” program to reduce gasoline use when trimming roadsides and medians.  They employ goats to eat the grass instead of using lawnmowers.  It’s an environmentally-friendly solution to unwanted grass growth.  You can read about it in the daily paper.  Often goats are put into the program when they’ve disobeyed the law, so–”

“Shut up!” shouted Bart.  “I’ll be back, you puny troll!  You’ll be real sorry when I bring my big brother!  Socrates is gonna kick your ass!”

“Oh Lord,” said Geraldine, climbing into the picnic basket in terror as the goat stomped away.

“Socrates?” asked Angelo.  “Socrates? I did not just hear that bully describe a member of his family as ‘Socrates’!”

“You did,” sighed Steve as he watched the goat’s large, swiftly-retreating posterior, with Frederick trotting after.  His eyes filled with humiliating images of broken bridges, bloody muskrats, and dead, brown grass.  He hung his head;  the bridge, which had stood for over 100 years, was in danger because of his ineffective management skills and inability to deal with local hooligans.

He didn’t get much sleep that night.  He tossed and turned in his bed of moss, hoping for a miraculous visitation by an angel with all the answers.  None arrived.  In the morning, he blearily arose and walked to the creek.  As he gazed at his warbling reflection, he thought of his grandfather, who had manned a similar bridge during World War One and had seen much worse than a couple of bully Goats Gruff.

“Stevie Boy,” he said to his reflection, “It’s time to grow a spine!  You have allies.  You have guts, and brains!  You know what to do!  Send a Geraldine with a message to Jimmy at the WDOT!”  He scribbled the situation on a scrap of paper and ran to Geraldine’s den.  The pheasant flew into action, heading towards the Department of Transportation’s headquarters.

And that is why, on the eve of March 17th, the Wisconsin Department of Transportation shackled an exceptionally large goat, along with two smaller and more vocal goats, and transported them to the city Goat Mowing program.  Socrates had time to roar only the phrase “SOCRATES NO PAY TOLL!” and place his tremendous weight on the bridge’s first plank, which shattered, before the city officials and the police department fell upon him with tranquilizers and cuffs.  As the Brothers Gruff were carted away to the holding facility, which was surrounded by tasteless, exhaust-covered grass, Steve smiled.  Intelligent thought and peaceful camaraderie had overcome violence, and the guilty would be re-educated and made to benefit society through their punishment.  All was well in the world of a gentle bridge troll.

…OR WAS IT? Only time shall tell.  The Goat Mowing program is overcrowded, and inmates are often released early on so-called “good behavior.”  It is a well-researched fact that Goat Mowers return to their community with better criminal skills and a desire for revenge.  Frederick was actually sent to the Juvenile Mower program and sentenced to only one month.  He is sure to be angry that he was not only imprisoned, but that his big brothers received harsher Mowing sentences and languish in the confines of the Mowing Pen.  And with nothing to do but mow and work out, the Goats Gruff are likely to be heavily muscled.

What can be done?

Holy crap, I think I just depressed myself with my own story here.  Come on, Splarks, you have to save this one.  Give it some hope, right?  Make sure that readers don’t finish the story with a sense of despair in the injustice of the world.  Um ….so while in the Mowing Pen, the Goats Gruff experienced a miraculous transformation!  One day, a group of Buddhist outreach workers came to the Pen.  They told the story of the Buddha and showed that totally unbelievable but undeniably flashy Keanu Reaves movie.  The goats were fascinated:  could the cause of their suffering truly be desire?  The desire for grass, the desire for revenge, the desire to hold power over the weak–was it all just maya, or illusion?  Could true happiness be gained not in beating the crap out of small animals and feeling special because of it, but in clearing the mind and experiencing the Buddha nature?  The answer is YES!  Frederick, convinced that he was the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama (“Goats are kinda like llamas, ok?” he explained to anyone who would listen), began consciously practicing mindfulness.  The forest animals were shocked when Frederick smiled and bowed to them.  He spent long hours meditating in a corner of a barn, chanting something that sounded suspiciously made up.  Determined to learn the advanced arts of yoga and meditation, Bart left on a pilgrimage to India, which he was pretty sure was east of Minnesota.  And Socrates found it easiest to reach a pure state of bliss, being unused to thinking in the first place.

The bridge was safe.  All was well in the small Wisconsin town, and a very happy bridge troll resumed his life of picnics, morning walks, and bridge maintenance.

***

It’s true!  There really is a Goat Mowing program.  Most famous is Google’s goat program. My city, Boulder, has been doing this for awhile.  I thought I was hallucinating the first time I saw a bunch of goats chowing down at the side of the road.  Seriously!  Does anyone else live in a city where they do this?

Artist Aria Nadii has a fabulous Capricorn (the Goat symbol in the Zodiac) piece.

I love comments.  If you comment, a little love goes to you!

Tags: Random Amusement // 1 Comment »

I don’t have a real backstory for this one.  I just happened to see a photo of a giant isopod, which was all the inspiration I needed.

It’s story time for children!  Today we’re going to learn about giant isopods, which live in the deep, cold Atlantic ocean and can grow to be over a foot long.  They are not fish, but crustaceans.  Huge, nasty crustaceans that might make you vomit when you see them.  Here, look at this picture:

(I’m sorry to make you vomit.  I, too, am feeling a bit queasy as I write this story.)

But you see, isopods are Mother Earth’s creatures, too, so we musn’t shun them.  Millicent was a special giant isopod.  Beyond her vomit-evoking powers, she had one impressive talent:  she could sing opera.  Opera is a type of music, and some people think that if brussels sprouts, boiled lima beans or liver made a sound, it would be opera.  Other people find opera to be fancy;  they probably enjoy brussels sprouts, boiled lima beans and liver.  The only problems with Millicent’s amazing skill is that giant isopods do not have the vocal cords that allow them to sing, nor do they have the brain capacity to learn Italian, German, or any other language in which opera might be sung.  She also would not have fit well into the costumes–dreadful poofy things that would have swallowed her figure.

You might ask how she knew she could sing opera, or how she knew what opera was at all, given that she lived in the deep sea and had no contact with human beings.

She just knew, perhaps from some psychic ability.  She could feel her unsung arias welling up within her.  She may have been remembering a past life in which she was Maria Callas, the famous opera singer.  It is rumored that in her efforts to lose weight, Maria Callas swallowed a tape worm*, something about as hideous as a giant isopod.  A psychic link may have been forged based on mutual disgustingness.  One never knows.

So what’s a giant isopod to do?

She pondered this while crawling the ocean floor, snacking on squid and sponges.  For many days and nights (it was all the same to Millicent, given that she lived at the bottom of the ocean), she passionately meditated and prayed for knowledge of the one thing that would let her fulfill her creative dreams.  One blessed day, the answer came to her like a divine revelation shooting into her exoskeleton:  get a new body, preferably one with vocal cords.  But how?  Science had repeatedly failed at providing people with new bodies, so it was no help.  Fortunately for Millicent, paranormal enthusiasts were not so easily discouraged.

Do you know what a paranormal enthusiast is, kids?  No?  Well I’m just going to say this:  put a bunch of  paranormal enthusiasts in a box with some scientists.  You don’t have to shake it or anything –the carnage ensues naturally.  ”What’s carnage?” is an excellent question for Mommy and Daddy.

Anyway, our friend Millicent swam daringly to the surface of the ocean as she saw a boat drift by.  Several people were huddled on the deck around a group of candles and incense.  She stared, fascinated.  Here were the weird tall things that lived in the horrible air.  She’d heard other sea animals speaking about them, but she was never convinced that such beings actually existed.  But there they were, a whole pack of them crowded around a large woman in a turban.  The boat rocked and the woman called out to the waters.

“Oh great spirits, we have traveled here today for your counsel!  Above these cold waters, we beseech you to arise from your oceanic grave and speak!  Enter into this purified body of this medium, Madame Slapinski, and impart your wisdom!”  At this point, the woman threw back her head and rolled her eyes deeply.  You see, a medium is a special type of paranormal enthusiast who is like a hotel for disembodied spirits.  The spirits hang out inside the medium’s body and talk to the people listening.  Usually the spirits are kind enough to answer questions, but occasionally they only want to shout nasty words and do funny dances.  They might also say a lot of things like “my child” and “why do you not hear the screams of your Mother Earth?”  The less tolerant ones will say things like, “Where’s my bottle of rum, $#!$@&?”

Millicent looked around her and saw no spirits clamoring to enter the medium.  In fact, there appeared to be a vacancy.  “Well,” thought Millicent, “Since no one else is waiting …”  She closed her eyes in imitation of the woman, and instantly found herself outside her body and face-to-face with the medium’s spirit.  Millicent, too, was a natural medium!

“Aaaaagh!” shrieked Madame Slapinski soundlessly when she saw the spirit of the giant isopod.

“What?” asked Millicent in irritation.  “Aaaaaagh” was a dreadful aria;  apparently mediums were not musically gifted.

“Hideous creature from the deep!” moaned Madame.

“How rude!” thought Millicent.  She thought the medium was rather unattractive as well–she had only two arms, for goodness’ sake!–but she didn’t go around pointing it out.  Millicent had good manners, like I hope you do, too, children.

“You may not pass!  Get thee behind me!” Slapinski ordered.

“Okay,” said Millicent, and crawled behind her as instructed, where her body lay vacant.  What a bizarre thing to demand, she thought as she settled into the medium’s body.  Millicent was nauseated just being in it!  It was all soft and squishy, with no protection at all.  Why, anyone could come along and gnaw on it.  The teeth were virtually non-existent, the claws pathetic, and it smelled dreadful.  But yes, yes!  There were the vocal cords.  She coughed and wheezed for a few moments while the humans around her waited, hardly daring to breathe.

Finally, she began.  At this point, I should share Wagner’s opera “Tristan und Isolde” with you, for this is what she sang.  However, I do not like brussels sprouts, and I positively loathe boiled lima beans.  Therefore, I will direct you to this lovely page on Wagner’s famous opera:  http://wagneroperas.com/indextristan.html.  Go on, explore the joy of opera.  Now look back at the picture above.  It may seem revolting to you, but I assure you that Millicent was in ecstasy.  Her newfound voice quivered with exquisite vibrato.  She thrust her arms wide as she filled her lungs with air, once such a horrible thought.  As her voice rose above the ocean waves, her small audience grasped each other in awe.

“What … what can this mean?”  whispered Everett, Madame Slapinski’s assistant.

“Hush, Everett!” said Mathilda, a devoted Slapinski disciple.  “I didn’t know she could sing so beautifully.”

“I didn’t either,” said Marcus, a would-be paramour of Madame’s.  (You will need to look up “paramour” in the dictionary.  I don’t want to get into it during story hour.) “Come to think of it, I heard her singing Madonna’s ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ in the shower last week, and it was dreadfully off-key.  Sounded a bit like Alvin and the Chipmunks, actually.”

Blissfully unaware of the reaction of her audience, Millicent sang on against the backdrop of the frigid Atlantic ocean, candles wafting smoke around her.  Then, a tapping on her shoulder stopped her.  It was Madame Slapinski’s spirit, and she was not amused.

“Foul Beast,” Slapinski said, her astral eyebrows twisting disdainfully, “While I must admit that your knowledge of opera and skill at singing are truly magnificent, I insist that you return my body to me.”

Milicent paused.  She was finally living her dream.  Was she really obligated to vacate the medium’s body?

“I refuse to be possessed by a giant sea-bug!” screeched Slapinski.  “If I’m going to be possessed, it better be some impressive arch-demon!  I call upon the Angelic Hosts, the Archangel Michael, the–”

And suddenly, Millicent found herself back in her own body.  While her exoskeleton was infinitely more comfortable, she mourned her loss of vocal cords.  The shadow of the boat passed over her, taking with it Madame Slapinski and her only chance of singing.  She cried miserably, except that giant isopods can’t really cry, so really it was just some shuddering and stomping.  A bright light appeared before her:  Madame Slapinski’s spirit had returned!

“Loathsome insect,” she said imperiously, “I heard your deep-sea wails and despite your hideous visage, I feel compassion for your plight.  I have one small hint for you:  it is called ‘the zoo.’  I shall say no more.”

Fortunately, that was all Millicent needed.  She had absorbed a lot of human knowledge during her brief journey to Madame Slapinsky’s body.  A zoo was a place where animals lived to entertain human beings.  Many, many humans visited the zoo each day and according to the vast archives of information in Madame Slapinsky’s mind, everyone is psychic.  Most people simply don’t know it.

Millicent practically salivated as she thought of the opportunity.

“Thank you, Madame Slapinski!” said Millicent.  The next day she strategically placed herself in the nets of an American scientific expedition and within two weeks, she was transported to a zoo in New England.  Zoo officials were puzzled at the sudden increase in spontaneous operatic singing by zoo patrons, who burst into magnificent song and then shivered outside the Deep Sea exhibit, curiously reluctant to go near the giant isopod enclosure.  The giant isopod, however, seemed inordinately interested in humans.  Some zoo patrons even insisted that the curious creature … smiled.

THE END!  Try not to get possessed by hideous sea bugs, kids!

*Highly unlikely, of course.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril // 2 Comments »