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It was a Friday night like any other, spent alone at my local zoo, scratching the chin of my favourite caged chimp Bobo. He stretched out one of his telescopic fingers to caress my cheek. Wrinkly to the touch and smelling of yesterday’s sewage (as opposed to the aromatic fresh stuff), I felt innocent love in his caress. But like any good moment of pleasure, I ruined it with uninvited brain waves.
I wondered how affectionate Bobo would be, if he wasn’t inside that cage. I wondered if Bobo knew that once upon a time, humans were chimp-like too. I wondered if Bobo realized that by a random act of Darwinism a long time ago, humans became all sexy and took over the earth, while he and his homies turned out gross and live in cages, just for our human amusement.
And then the most troubling thought: what if Bobo knows all of this? And what if he’s plotting his revenge?
I don’t know about you, but I like the view from up top. Evolution was amazing. It helped us grow out of our ape-face and shaggy-ape hair. And my god, just look at our cheekbones and bodacious bodies!
If the hotness progression wasn’t enough, we became really smart and assumed full control of the earth (then ruined it for the most part, but let’s not split hairs).
So we’re livin’ and lovin’ and destroyin’, but what if Bobo spills the beans to his simian peers?
They’re not that smart, but they ARE smart enough to band together. I’m sure one of them could steal the zookeeper’s keys, and if word spreads fast enough (even a monkey can figure out an iPhone), it could happen in every zoo around the world.
And then we’re finished.
Fugitive chimps burning houses, punching mailboxes, and tossing feces, until eventually WE’RE all locked in iron cages, with only last month’s issue of People magazine and a Mars bar. Meanwhile the chimps drive our cars and bed our women (I have a feeling the chimps would bed our women and enjoy it…we have a history together after all).
And you know what would happen with unfortunate chimp-to-human breeding?
The fall of the human race, and the Museum of Natural History come to life (minus the now insufferable Ben Stiller, who will never repeat his incredible performance in “Zoolander”).
I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to give up the keys, so as long as we still have ‘em…let’s enjoy!
Enjoy sexy, enjoy evolved, enjoy human.
So beautiful, so pure, and with a horn containing magical healing powers, we all want unicorns to exist.
NO WE DON’T!
Imagine if unicorns were discovered in our lifetime. Now please imagine World War III, because whichever country these ethereal beasts were discovered in (my guess is Luxembourg), invasion would swiftly follow.
World War III would end on the basis of cloning. The United Nations would promise a unicorn to every man, woman, and child.
But who would be in charge of quality control?
Cloning is all well and cute when you’re simply doubling up on a sheep named Dolly, but exponential cloning of unicorns? It won’t be long before the magic of unicorns is watered down; it’s like cutting lines of coke with powdered sugar, just not the same. Predictably, the wealthy will snatch up all the earliest clones, leaving the poor folk with glorified horses that only have a two-inch horn.
And what about the horses, by the way? Up until now the beauty of horses has been captured in films and books; they are infinitely loved by those who own stables or those who can afford to take a ride.
Well not if the unicorns sauntered in!
The influx of magical unicorns would devalue the plain old horses. They’d be tossed from the stables and left to survive in an unforgiving world. It’s like in Southern Cali where the beautiful people always get by, and the ugly people are homeless or work in valet.
So if you care even a lick for horses, world peace, and the sanctity of unicorn magic, you are as happy as I am that they’ve never been discovered…
When the weather is warm, my window is open and the birds start chirping at five a.m….
I need to discuss this vocal abomination.
Who told birds they could sing in front of houses?
I just don’t understand how in the confines of nature and its laws, birds could be so bold as to sing without permission. Are humans not superior to birds? I could crush a stupid beak with only two of my human eyelashes, so where is the respect?
Well if that’s the way nature works, then I guess it’s time to start camping out in front of bear caves. Then I’ll wake up at five a.m., and start singing “Like a Virgin” by Madonna at the top of my lungs. And the bear can’t do a single thing about it.
The bear can chew my arm off, or whichever limb it finds most delicious. Or maybe I’ll be eaten head to toe, because you know, it’s a giant bear and I’m singing Madonna outside its cave.
At five a.m.
This brings me to my second feathered grievance. How come some birds get to be spotlight hogs, and others not? I mean it must be great to sing, or grab worms the fastest, or peck wood all day (what?), but why them and not…seagulls? How exactly did that conversation go?… “Hey seagulls, I know this sucks, but that polluted water over there is your turf. It’s not all bad news though, ‘cause you can always expand to landfills and pick through garbage.” But maybe the seagull outcome isn’t the worst…“Hey chickens? Ducks? Pheasants? Cornish hens? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you know the whole circle of life and all that? Yeah well…”
I guess chickens and seagulls aren’t “sexy” enough to sing on tree-branches in residential neighbourhoods. That’s one way that birds are just like humans. The sexy people act and sing, while the rest of us pick through garbage or have our valuable organs harvested while we sleep (that’s never happened to you?).
Since I can’t do anything about it, I’ll try to understand the hierarchy of “sexy”, but I do have one requested change: kick out the birds, and hang a Daniel Craig outside my window. A shirtless Daniel Craig (well I’m not a lesbian so of course he would be shirtless), who serenades me with “Body and Soul” by Frank Sinatra.
Do you hear that Craig? My window is open (and aren’t you shooting a movie in Toronto anyway?)…I’ll be waiting with drool-encrusted cheeks…
It was mostly curiosity when I first read the package tagline: “Crunches like an apple. Tastes like a grape.”
But as I continued along the produce aisle, searching for a classic kind of fruit, my feelings quickly heightened to fear.
I don’t have a problem with naturally-occurring fusions (donkey + horse=mule, me + cupcakes=happiness coma), but when the crazy science folks start to mix up fruity notions, I sense the beginnings of evil.
And by the way, who are scientists to decide that a grape needs to help out an apple? A grape doesn’t need to be crunchy, and an apple tastes great in its original apple essence.
Subjectivity aside, you know where my next thought will lead:
-What if they start doing this to humans?
Like maybe the government will round up a bunch of scientists, and start to make a list of their desired human fusions. Doesn’t sound scary yet, but what if they decide to use it on me? “Hey scientist guy, see that blonde hottie over there? Her personality blows, so let’s give her Romi’s and see what comes out.” (and yes of course I’d be selected on these grounds, thank you very much)
So fine, blondie gets a giant chunk of my brain, but what the hell happens to me? Or look at the picture again: what the hell happened to the grape that was used to make “Grapple”? Well I’m pretty sure that “Grapple” still looks like an apple, so yes, you guessed it, the grape is DEAD.
So it starts with an apple and a grape, and it ends with my carcass in a science lab.
(beware of men in white coats…)