Have you been to the pseudonym museum since it changed its name? No, you don’t have to be a member to get in, as long as you can lip-synch the secret passcode. Since I got my bloody carpenter’s license, I’ve felt like a box of lost-head nails, so now I keep a low profile, although whenever I’m counting, I never start from zero. What’s the use of complaining? During last week’s prisoner exchange, I told the guards there isn’t much I can do; I’ve been sleeping as fast as I can and inventing insoluble problems of unfathomable depths. They referred me to a suicide prevention hotline and suggested that I re-enroll in a post-nuclear wellness program. Fortunately, this aligns perfectly with my passions, otherwise I would have gone fully non-linear. As it turns out, I can do a lot of things other animals can’t. (I’m told these are very popular with the ladies.) In fact, right after I got my tricky wildlife tattoo, I ordered two dozen plastic roses and swept up all the internet litter. Say, have you seen those midget flamingos wading along the arctic shore? Yeah, I love how the pink goes all the way down their spindly legs. I mean, how many ballerinas does it take to dance on the head of a pin? I hope this isn’t just my mid-week paranoia talking, but doesn’t it seem like one minute you’re here, and the next minute you’re gone? Last weekend, the Grim Reaper took one look at me in my tattered tuxedo overalls and said, I smell brains. Call me when all this damn hammering is over.
Appears in Lucky Animals
