phat phree submission

Ever since I read the striped shirt article, i've been thinking, now this is an organization that i'd like to get down with.

I wrote this piece tonight. Any thoughts?

“Call Me Crazy, But I just Love Killing Animals”

While driving over a pigeon the other day, I came to an interesting conclusion. I should kill more animals. Everyone should. Fuck animals.

Sure, I’ve derived a few moments of pleasure from our non-human counterparts. A dog lapping peanut-butter off of a passed-out roommate’s ass is one of those visual masterpieces that never gets old. Cows tastes good. Even pigeons are good for a photo opportunity if you’re ever blessed with the good fortune to see some hot pigeon on pigeon spring break action.

I can already hear the ASCPA knocking at my door. “Mr. Smith,” the young, long-haired earth-saver would say, we all feel it would be best if you stopped murdering animals. Animals are as important as you or me, and they should not be killed because you find humor in the suffering of other species.” A valid point I would reply, then I would bow and let a pigeon head fall out the breast pocket of my white collared shirt. “I believe you dropped something,” I would say. Then I’d close the door and lock it.

I don’t expect her to understand. She’s never killed a sea-cow. I, on the other hand, have killed several sea-cows. The first one is always the most special. I was wading around waste-deep in the Florida keys when I felt a massive leather-bag of lard bump into my leg. The surprise of it altered the trajectory of my Frisbee® and I kicked the fucker, yelling, “I’m not a propeller you aquatic bovine son of a bitch!” It responded by slowly floating up to the surface on its back. After a moment of confusion I was doubled over laughing my ass off. I mean my leg couldn’t have been traveling over 5 miles per hour. This thing must weigh more than I do, there’s no way one blow to the side could have taken it down. But there it was, bloated and floating in the afternoon sun for me and my friends to laugh and throw frisbys at. We played with that fat-fucker for three hours. We even dragged it to shore and did WWF moves on it. My friend Carl threw out his back trying to give the dead-bastard a Suplex. I was hooked.

A few days later we realized we should have eaten the thing. We knew it must be a delicious blend of steak-and sea-food. A delectable Surf and Turf in one weak-willed creature. So we returned to the beach, armed with a cooler full of Pabst and a Machete we bought from a kind Mexican fellow. It took almost 4 hours, but we found one. Now I’m not one to brag, but I was like a ninja compared to that slow, dumb, waste of sea-lard pussy. I’d been hovering around the Machete most of the time, so when Dave gave the signal I was the first one to it. I swear, less than ten seconds later I was bellowing out a triumphant Tarzan scream just like I imagined. The taste of that fucker was almost as bad as his reflexes, but seriously, my diving, two handed stab was pretty awesome.

It was a good 9 months after that before I got close enough to the ocean to get another one. But that time I got my hands on a power-boat and tallied at least three. It wasn’t as fun in a boat though. I prefer a more-hands on approach.

Some of you out there are probably thinking, “Wow, Rob, you’re a fucking sadist.” That’s just not true. I don’t like killing most animals. I don’t even like hunting. Killing a deer with a rifle is nothing like killing a manatee with a machete. I tried to explain this to my flannel-clad uncle, but I don’t think he really got it.

I thought it was just sea-cows, and after the let-down from the power-boat assault, I figured I had past that phase in my life. But that pigeon woke up something inside me. I didn’t even really do it on purpose, he landed in front of my car and after a instinctual swerve toward it, I was smiling into my rear-view mirror. That night Carl and I came up with a list of animals that would be fun to take down.

Sea-cows: tried and true, like the fat-kid in dodge ball.
Giraffes: That neck ain’t gonna protect you now, fucker.
Carp: Like a smaller sea-cow. note: obtain water-proof firecrackers.
Monkey: but only if you don’t get a weapon and you fight him in a WWF ring.
Cat: specifically Carl’s cat.
Goat: bare-knuckle cage match.


OTHER animal ideas
Bald-Eagle: Not so noble with my foot up your ass. note: Carl says they’re too rare and symbolic, but I think the American Animal should be crude and over-populated, like a pigeon.

(perhaps a funnier angle might be someone trying to quit…there’s last sea-cows and there’s LAST Sea-cows…which was this to be.)







In other news, Michael Vick has a civil suit filed against him by a woman to whom he gave Herpes. He used the alias Ron Mexico. My comment, besides the brilliance of the alias, is that perhaps Michael Vick is the alias, perhaps a herpes touting Ron Mexico is the real person, and Michael Vick is just football playing alter-ego he came up with to avoid battery and negligence law-suits. He obviously needs a new lawyer, because this was never even brought up. read the 17 page legal account Here