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.

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 by splarks
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I have always loved Komodo dragons … from afar. Parthenogensis in Komodo dragons is a real phenomenon.

Poor Mabel.  It was just unfair that she was so decidedly ugly and unpopular a Komodo dragon.  She had tried to make herself prettier by rubbing her cheeks against red clay, but the other girls snorted and advised, “It doesn’t matter how much makeup you wear–you’ll never be pretty.”  She had tried to diet, restricting herself only to grubs and mice, but she grew faint and collapsed on top of Elder Mahoney, breaking the old dragon’s hip.  For awhile, she had even spelled her name “Maybelle” in hopes of seeming more sophisticated, but the plan deteriorated when she realized that only she and Elder Mahoney could read.

Now, she poked her head out of the family burrow.  Her mom and dad were off hunting, so it was safe to stretch out on her favorite rock.  She was working on her new song, but having difficulty coming up with a good rhyme for “claws.”

“Life as a teenage Komodo dragon
Sucks, my parents are always raggin’
On me and the way I grow my claws
My siblings tease with loud guffaws –”

“Listen, girls!  Mabel’s actually singing out loud!”  The snide voice cut through her reverie and she raised her head off the rock, flinching under the fierce gaze of Crystal, the meanest Komodo dragon in the jungle. She and her pack of obedient minions surrounded the rock.

Mabel cleared her throat and glared at Crystal. “It was supposed to be private. I thought I was alone.”

“Ooh!” squealed Crystal, flipping her tongue languidly and retracting her claws. “It’s private, girls!”  The group chattered and giggled.

“You wouldn’t understand,” muttered Mabel, dropping her head back to the rock.

“We wouldn’t want to–”  Crystal paused, her narrowing to slits.  She raised her tongue into the air.  “What was that noise?”

“Just those stupid zoologists,” said one of the pack.  “They’re always hanging around, acting like we can’t see them.”

A zoologist’s voice wafted towards them.  “… fine specimen sunbathing on the rock.  Am I recording?  Watson?”

“Yes, Professor Montgomery, loud and clear.”  The Komodo dragons watched the two humans and their film equipment clang around the brush.

“Good,” replied Montgomery.  ”As I was saying, there’s a fine specimen sunbathing on the rock.  Sex is undetermined, though given its large size, I propose that it is a male.”

Crystal and her cronies howled.  “Large size!  Male!  Ha ha!”

“At least 150 pounds,” Montgomery continued.  “Are you writing that down?”

Mabel squeezed her eyes shut as the other dragons roared.

“Formidable size!  Isn’t he magnificent!  Where’s my tranquilizer gun?  Damn, I left it in the van.  I wanted to measure his thighs.  They’re enormous! Watson!”

“Yes sir?”

“Can you get a look at its hindquarters?  How old is it?  Can we tell if it’s mating yet?”

Mabel wondered if she could die of embarrassment.  At this point, death would be welcome.

Crystal snorted.  “Mating?  Not likely.  She’d have to get a boyfriend first, and we all know that will never happen.”  She flicked her tongue at Mabel.  “Come on, girls.  Let this loser get back to her stupid poetry or whatever.  We have boys to meet in the clearing.”   Turning their backs on Mabel, the dragons dropped gracefully into the water and swam off.

When the last scaly gray tail had disappeared from view, Mabel allowed herself to sob.  Those mean girls!  They thought they were so special, just because their scales were glossy, tongues long and perfectly forked, and their weight only 80 pounds.  She couldn’t help having her father’s genes.  And those scientists!  Why did they always have to hang around and poke their noses into everything?  Like she wanted the whole world to know the size of her thighs!

“I hate my life!”  she sobbed.

“Watson!”  bellowed Montgomery.  “Did you hear that hideous noise?  I think it’s giving a mating call!  I’ve waited so long to hear it with my own ears!”

Screaming in misery, Mabel flopped off the rock and swam to the opposite shore, far away from zoologists and mean, pretty Komodo dragons.  She curled up under a tree and cried herself to sleep.

She had the most curious dream.  In it, a beautiful tiger approached her.  The tiger was tall, strong, and distinctly feminine.  Mabel thought she seemed rather glamorous, really.   ”Mabel,” said the tiger, “why are you crying?”

Mabel sniffled.  “Do you have to ask?  I’m fat, I’m ugly, and I’ll never get a boyfriend!  My life is over!”

The beautiful tiger looked surprised.  “But my dear, you are a talented poet and songwriter.  You are strong, and intelligent.  You aren’t fat; you have a large frame.  What could be wrong with that?”

“Boys don’t care about poetry and they like dainty girls.  I want to be popular and beautiful!”  She paused.  “Hey, are you one of those genies or whatever?  Will you grant my wish?  I’ve heard lots of stories of genies or fairies or magic talking trees granting wishes.”

The tiger stretched luxuriously, and purred.  “No, dear, I’m afraid not.  I’m just a figment of your dream.  I cannot magically shrink your bone size, nor can I make vapid girls like Crystal see past your exterior.  And, sadly, most of the males of your species aren’t interested in poetry.  They care only for the stink of flesh, whether it is between their teeth or under their bellies.  However, I promise that you will discover something greater than obtaining popularity, beauty and boys.”

Mabel sniffled.  “You  … you do?  Really?”

The tiger licked her paw and gazed deeply into Mabel’s eyes.  “I do.”

Mabel awoke with a start, her mind racing.  What could the tiger have meant?  It was dark – she’d been asleep for hours!  She scurried back home, knowing she’d would be punished for her tardiness.   As she predicted, her parents shouted at her and sent her to her corner of the burrow, while her siblings snickered in the back.  However, she settled down to sleep with a smile on her face.  For the first time, she had hope.

The next day, she woke from more strange dreams about tigers and unpleasant diets.  Her butt hurt, and when she looked down at her hindquarters, she saw a pile of gleaming white eggs!  She was still staring in shock when her father glanced over.

“Mabel!”  he roared.  “I told you not to hang around boys!  What have you done?”

“My baby!  She’s ruined!” sobbed her mother.

“Mom, Dad,” Mabel cried, “I haven’t done anything with boys!  I … I don’t even know what it is that you don’t want me to do!  I just woke up and there they were.”  She felt strangely possessive about these eggs.  “Don’t take them away from me.  They’re mine.”

“They’re gonna be retards,” sang her youngest brother snidely.

Her father shouted “Call Elder Mahoney!” and stormed out of the burrow.

Despite the chaos, Mabel felt a deep peace and calm pervade her as she watched over her lovely eggs.  They were hers, and despite what her ignorant brother had said, they were perfect.   She was vaguely aware of Elder Mahoney racing into the burrow.  He and her parents whispered fiercely, and she heard the word “parthenogenesis,” but all she could think of was her joy at having these five perfect little bundles under her.

Finally, the adults approached her.  “Mabel, dear,” her father began haltingly.  “I’m sorry I shouted at you.  Ah … Elder Mahoney has something to tell you.”

Elder Mahoney smiled and patted her back.  “You see, Mabel, when a lady dragon gets very lonely, sometimes God grants her a miracle and gives her babies, without her having to do a thing.  You’re a bit young for this, of course, but we have learned from the zoologists that it is called ‘parthenogenesis.’  It’s a shame that I ate one of those pesky professors yesterday … I could have learned a lot about this phenomenon from him, I’m sure.  I just didn’t realize … I mean, he smelled quite tasty, and …”

“Of course you didn’t know, Elder,” Mabel’s mother soothed.

“Here, here, of course not, Mahoney, of course not,” her father said gruffly.

“So …” said Mabel, still luxuriating in her beautiful eggs.  “I can have babies whenever I want?”

“It would appear so, Mabel.”

She thought of the tiger’s promise.  “So I don’t need boys?”

“Well, biologically speaking, no,” said Elder Mahoney.  “Although I still recommend–”

“And I don’t need the other girls to be my friends, because I can make my own family?”

Father Mahoney hemmed and hawed, but Mabel understood immediately.  “I don’t need anyone!” she cried with exhilaration.  “Crystal can kiss my big-boned ass!  I don’t need her approval.  I don’t need to conform to her ridiculous view of what it means to be a successful dragon.  I am my own dragon!  I’m going to raise my children to read, to love fine arts, and to treat each other with kindness and respect!”

And this is how, seven years later, Mabel found herself Queen of the Island and surrounded by hundreds of her own progeny, all gifted with premature parthenogenesis.  She no longer had to hunt for her own food, which was now reverently brought to her by her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.  Her genes created huge Komodo dragons, and soon all the males found dainty females to be unattractive.  As the line of petite, delicate females died out, the hereditary meanness of small-boned dragons also ceased to pollute the gene pool.  Each Sunday her descendants performed a poetry recital and concert for her, featuring their original music and writing, occasionally singing one of her own songs.  And each Monday morning she visited the bones of Professor Montgomery and Elder Mahoney, which had been laid side by side.

“Thank you,” she would say quietly.  “Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to be myself.”

Then, she rested her large bones on her favorite rock, and began working on her next sonnet.  She was, indeed, her own dragon.

***

When I asked Dave what he thought of this story, he said, “Well, it’s a little more serious than most of your stories.”  Yes, he said that a Splarks story was “serious.”

Tags: Based on a True Story, Bizarre Animal Stories by splarks
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This is a special post in honor of my friends who are heading off to Burning Man in a couple of weeks.

Coming home from a long, wearying business trip, you fly into Reno for a layover.  You stretch your legs, get coffee, waste two hours on compulsively checking your vast array of social networking accounts.  When you finally board your plane again and take off, you notice that something is … different.  What’s with all these brightly colored, dusty people crowding into the plane?  How the hell did they get on here?

“Oh man,” you hear a girl in a fuzzy neon green bikini say, “I’m gonna miss the Playa.”

With dawning horror, you realize the nightmare you’ve boarded.  It’s a plane full of Burners just emerging from the Burning Man event, and you’re lifting off!  There’s no escape, and here are ten ways in which you’re likely to die.

Situation One:  Death by shock and/or horror
Who’s at Risk: The elderly, those suffering from a heart condition, and uptight individuals
The Death: Your heart probably started pounding when you saw the chick in the fuzzy bikini.  The last time you saw such a thing was Never.  Your adrenalin circulates at dangerous levels, preparing you for possible unpleasant freaky experiences involving glow sticks and hula hoops.  Then you realize that the chick is actually a guy, and there’s another androgynous type with him/her/it in a matching fuzzy fuscha bikini.  Your heart protests violently, and soon you’ve keeled over into your martini.  That’s ok, it was made with really crappy gin anyway. 

Situation Two:  Choking on glitter/feathers/other ethereal decor
Who’s at Risk: Breathing individuals. 
The Death: You’re trapped in the middle seat between two exquisitely ornamented creatures.  It’s not so bad;  they’re quite attractive and friendly.  You relax as they wow you with stories about the Burn.  Suddenly, one of them sneezes and a cloud of glitter wafts from her wig.  It’s in your eyes, your nose, your mouth!  The other one leans over you to hand her a tissue, and you inadvertently inhale several flimsy feathers from the four boas wrapped around his head.  Clogged with pixie dust and feathers, you suffocate.  But at least it’s a very pretty, soft suffocation. 

Situation Three:  Bludgeoning by Platform Boots
Who’s at Risk:  Short people and children
The Death: The Burner next to you rises and says he needs to take a leak.  You are now eye-level with the tops of his fuzzy orange cowboy boots, which have, in your estimation, 10 inch platforms.  Said platforms trip over the flight attendant and the Burner goes flying.  You are smacked in the temple with the orange platforms, which causes a brain seizure.  As your consciousness fades into oblivion, you hear a Burner behind you saying, “Amateur.  I mean, I have stilts.”

Situation Four: Death by Contact High
Who’s at Risk: Those with lung diseases and low tolerance to altered states
The Death: You’re getting on great with your Burner seatmate.  He has fabulous stories about life on the Playa and the amazing Art Car he created, totally fueled by biodiesel and graywater.  You start thinking about that unused comp time you’ve racked up.  Maybe you could try this Burning Man thing next year!  You and your seatmate have gone through several beers, and you stumble to the bathroom.  Unfortunately, a couple of Burners have used the bathroom to surreptitiously smoke pot.  The heavy smoke overcomes you and your poor half-capacity lungs, and you crash to the floor.  The floor is nasty but the event of your death seems absolutely hilarious.  Your giggling so hard you cannot breathe, if there was air in here to breathe anyway.

Situation Five: Death by Pretty Lights
Who’s at Risk:  Epileptics
The Death:  You’re deep into your Harlequin Romance novel when the Burner next to you gets up to rummage around in the overhead compartment.  Triumphantly, she sits down and shows you her find.  “Check it out!” she says.  “It’s this awesome strobe that I traded for three hours of Reiki.”  Before you can stop her, she starts it up and the plane is filled with jagged flashes of red, blue, and green light.  As your temporal lobes cringe rhythmically in terror, you swallow your tongue and choke to death.  Damn it, you hadn’t even got to the bodice-ripping chapter.

Situation Six: The “Real” Synth
Who’s at Risk:  Anyone
The Death:  Your seatmate looks suspiciously at you over the top of his chunky chartreuse glasses.  You kindly decided to put him at ease and ask him about the band t-shirt he’s wearing.  “What kind of music do they play?” you ask politely.  Before your sentence is finished, he’s pulling out a strange contraption from his bag.  “This is a real synth,” he says conspiratorially.  “It’s not that fucking K-mart shit that most people use.  I play actual experimental music with this, you know?  I built it myself from parts I scavenged.  You seem pretty cool, like you really care about music.  I’ll let you play it.”  Nervously, you touch a key, brushing an exposed wire.  Sparks fly and you die, your last screams destined to be sampled in a psytrance song.

Situation Seven: The Art Installation
Who’s at Risk:  Anyone
The Death:  “I don’t do drugs,” announces your new Burner friend.  “I’m an artist.  I protect my brain chemistry, you know?  So that nothing messes with my creative impulse.”  You nod.  You’re a bit of an artist yourself, you tell her.  You did a couple of still life pieces in watercolor during a college art class.  Then you find yourself pressed against the window frantically trying to avoid the enormous mass of springs, coils, and wires that she just pulled from her pack.  “It’s my art installation,” she beams.  “It even glows in the dark!”  But you’ll never see it glow in the dark.  You’ll never see anything again.  One of the springs pops loose and embeds itself into your eye, poking through into your brain.  You die on the spot.  What a pity.  When it was all assembled, it was really cool.

Situation Eight: Death by Shpongle
Who’s at Risk: Anyone flying low-cost air carriers
The Death: Squeezed into your tiny seat, you breath a sigh of relief when you see that your seatmate isn’t much inclined to talk.  He’s blissfully glued to his iPod.  You can hear the tinny sound of “doof doof doof doof” emanating from his ears.  His foot starts tapping, which you ignore at first.  Then he starts wiggling up and down in his seat and singing along with the voice samples in a screechy falsetto.  He throws his arms in the air and sways his head from side to side.  Stop staring dumbfoundedly!  You should be more concerned about the integrity of your seating.  The Burner’s constant, violent motion has shaken loose a crucial screw in the seat, and you both crash to the floor during a bout of turbulence.  As you fall, the latch on the seat tray stabs you in the throat. As you lay bleeding, you realize this would never have happened in a more upscale, spacious airline with seat trays a safe distance away.  But you get what you pay for, don’t you?

Situation Nine:  Poi Mishaps
Who’s at Risk:  Anyone
The Death:  Ignoring the protests of the flight attendants, a troupe of fire spinners begins a performance.  You watch in simultaneous fear and awe as they twirl flaming objects, spit fire, and cavort half-naked in the fiery aisles.  The flight attendants band together and wrestle away the butane, shrieking that they can’t spin poi on a plane.  “No worries, sorry man,” says one.  “We’ve got these nice fabric ones.  No fire danger there whatsoever.”  The fabric is shiny and glittery, and very strong.  You discover this unfortunate fact as a dancer flings it over your head, where it falls and tangles around your neck.  You choke, you die.  The other passengers don’t complain too much, though–they’re clapping too hard to hear your strangled cries.  Did you see that girl with the flaming hula hoop?  I mean, wow!  How did they get that stuff on the plane, anyway?

Situation ten: Plane Crash
Who’s at Risk:  Samuel L. Jackson and Everyone
The Death:  Samuel L. Jackson is in first class, unbeknownst to you, and he’s tired of this shit.  He bursts into economy class and shouts, “I want these motherfucking freaks off this motherfucking plane!”  Unfortunately, this triggers the guy next to you who is coming down from a two-week multi-drug trip.  Screaming in terror, he bolts from his seat and rushes to the emergency exit.  Samuel realizes that he’s not equipped with any kind of weapon since this is real life and not a movie, and Security confiscated his guns.  He is too late to stop the Burner from  kicking open the door, and you’re all sucked out of the plane.  You die happy, though.  You saw Samuel L Jackson in real life, and he said “Motherfucking.”

Tags: Based on a True Story, Subcultural silliness by splarks
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Larry the mountain lion was on the prowl again, heading into hippie heaven to score a little dope.  The valley of Boulder, Colorado lay before him like an unsecured mountain trash bin offering illicit refuse.  Perched on his favorite rock cliff, he waited till the city slept before descending.  Down, down, down the mountain path toward the shining city lights.  The action called him!  His man Sanchez was on the Division of Wildlife animal control squad, and would be ready to supply an evening of fun  … for a fee.  The arrangement was simple:  Sanchez provided the tranquilizer, and Larry made the man look good.

He chuckled as he thought of the last excursion.  He’d been prowling around the sorority, baring his fangs at drunken college girls and waiting for Sanchez to appear.  When the Division of Wildlife van rolled into campus, Sanchez leaped out with his unnecessarily large dart gun.  He let it fly, and Larry felt the sting of the tranquilizer.  Ah, sweet, sweet tranq!  He reveled in ecstasy, giggling as the girls flocked to Sanchez while squealing things like, “Ohmigod you’re so brave!” and “Thank you so much, Mister Animal Control Guy!”  Sanchez twirled his handlebar mustache and lectured the girls about leaving food in their beer coolers.

Now he played the game again.  He darted around parked cars, his shadow barely visible in the twilight.  He slunk past houses and swing-sets, making his way to a fancy neighborhood on Mapleton Hill.  “There’s a girl there I want to impress,” Sanchez had said.  “Do your thing and menace, and I’ll bring the latest formula you want.”

“Menace?” Larry had said skeptically.  He communicated telepathically with Sanchez, who was something of a Dr. Doolittle.  He had tried learning human language for awhile, but the lack of a human larynx was no paltry handicap.

“Yeah, menace,” Sanchez replied.  “Growl, show a little tooth, twitch the tail, eat the family dog, you know.  That kind of thing.”

“Dog?” complained Larry.  “Is that the best you can do?  The domesticated ones taste like cardboard.”

“Ok, don’t eat the dog,” said Sanchez thoughtfully, rubbing his belly.  “That freaks them out and then they shoot bullets.  We need you alive.”

So he carefully avoided the houses with dogs.  Most of them were too fat and slow to detect his presence, anyway.  He waltzed under windows and leaped over gardens.  He drooled in anticipation for the tranqs!  He embraced this dark, dangerous lifestyle – he didn’t care what the other forest animals thought. They were all so comfortable in their little burrows, content to eat and crap all day.  Well, he had more to explore and ecstasy to experience!  And there was Sanchez now, springing into action before a screaming girl.  It was time!

He unleashed a roar and felt the sweet sting of the tranq …

Eight hours later, he awoke with a splitting headache, fuzzy memories of shrieking human females, and poodle fur in his teeth.  The new formula’s come-down was harsh and he felt queasy.  He was caged and muzzled, bouncing around in the back of a Division of Wildlife truck.  Sanchez was a rotten chauffeur.

Maybe it was the agonizing headache that had grown worse with each tranquilizer.  Maybe it was Sanchez’s off-key yodeling of Abba songs.  Maybe it was the muzzle pinching his nose and his churning gut.  But suddenly Larry saw how far his sordid life had spun out of control.  Instead of proudly stalking elk, he was selling himself for drugs!  His lust for the fast life had grown into dependence, and now he was on parade for the humans and eating poodles, for gods’ sake!  He knew what poodle fur did to his eczema!  As he blearily looked around the truck, he winced at the bleak truth:  Sanchez was not aDivision of Wildlife employee as he claimed.  What DOW employee would encourage this dangerous behavior, risking an animal’s life to get attention from females?  There was no equipment in the truck, no radio, and Sanchez’s uniform was a thrift-store parody of a park ranger’s garb.  He was a fraud and had been using Larry, egging him on with drugs and thrills.

The muzzle had been hastily buckled and it sagged, so he carefully worked his jaw free.  Larry settled in, feigning sleep and waiting for his moment.

Should he eat this traitorous human?  He’d heard humans were tasty enough, but his stomach was still upset.  No, best to wait until he was free and munch on rabbits for a few days.  That would calm his belly.

Should he chase the man off a ledge and watch him plummet to his death?  While satisfying, it sounded like way too much work.  His pounding head would make the sudden movement unpleasant.

Should he slink off into the woods when Sanchez opened the door, just as he’d done dozens of times before?  He could migrate west to California and forget this had ever happened.  But no, he refused to retreat in shame.  It was time to put those telepathic powers to good use.  He was strong with the power of telepathic influence!  He had simply never allowed himself to fully experience his own abilities, hiding his powers because the coyotes thought it was “weird” and the bobcats had once called it a “power of the devil.”

Enough with hiding and pretending to be normal!  He had to stop Sanchez from exploiting other wildlife.  The man’s brain was weak, domesticated, and far too well-fed.  It would be easy to manipulate.  All he had to do was think really hard about squirrels …

And that is how, 8 days later, Division of Wildlife officials found a naked man in a tree, nibbling on nuts and chattering in a strange, rodent-like language.  They tried to coax him down, but he only threw pinecones at them.  Eventually, after much debate, they called the Fire Department, spread a net below the tree, and shot a tranquilizer into the man’s backside.  The man fell from the tree and was shuttled quickly to the psych ward of the mental hospital.

Larry, now clean and tranq-free, perched on his favorite rock ledge once more and viewed the distant scene with his keen eyesight.  Satisfied, he turned his back on the sordid lifestyle of his youth.  It was time to regain his territory, find a mate or five.  There was much to explore.  His poodle-eating days behind him, he lived the rest of his life in pursuit of fine food and female company, just as a mountain lion should.

Don’t be Lion Snacks!

Tags: Based on a True Story, Bizarre Animal Stories, Repentance & Wailing by splarks
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On Halloween night
Paws in doorstep candy-bowl
Steal a Kit-Kat, run.

Hide in tree, gloating
Suspicious scowl at witness
Stuff in mouth, all yours!

O Piggy Squirrel
Halloween ain’t just for kids
Chocolate stuffed cheeks.

All candy’s gone now
Crying child, you’re out of luck
Squirrel’s chowing down.

(Yes, this actually happened)

Tags: Based on a True Story, Bizarre Animal Poems by splarks
1 Comment »

Based on a true story … seriously …

O Haughty Penguin, shiny and staid
with magnificent yellow-white fluff;
You hate the zoo and are not made
for such banal and humid stuff.
The dictatorial zookeeper, fat and bossy,
insists that you play nice
But you present your response, so saucy:
a demonstrative penguin bite.

He jabs his walkie-talkie in your direction
to intimidate and corral,
but he’s graceless and gawky,and your predelection
helps raise the penguin morale
because it’s for his sorry human flesh
over which you will claim victory;
You are a penguin Gilgamesh
defending your people from enemies.

The Chomping! The Wailing! The Hissing! The Flailing!
He flees in fear from your beak!
In a pathetic wheeze, he claims he’ll say “please”
when next he demands you be meek!
O Penguin, stand tall with your beak full of fish
dropped in haste by the chastened employee,
the children all cheer because you got your wish
a moment of proud penguin glory.

Tags: Based on a True Story, Bizarre Animal Poems, Rampaging by splarks
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