Listen up, people. The latest intelligence is just rolling in now, and we’re in a bit of a pickle (to say the least). We may only be certain at this time that the entire town proper unknowingly lies in unprecedented peril. The warning signs have been more subtle than we, the clean, god-fearing citizens of our great nation-state could have ever imagined–or even dreamt. Damn it all! If it weren’t for our massively-overfunded team of quantum physicists, we wouldn’t even have the means to begin strategizing. Money well spent, gentlemen–AND WOMEN (apologies)!
I need to be blunt, as time is of the essence. We must to gird ourselves for the continuous unfolding population of non-native spongemonkeys, who have been granted the upper hand in lower east side pedway algae management. Since they have no natural enemies in this particular environment, they will continue spreading through all urbanized environments, unabated, until someone develops a plan of attack to at least curb their reproduction.
Every man, woman and child currently tasked with this difficult (some would say oppressive) undertaking have overwhelmingly speculated that at this current pace, it could take several decades for the infrastructure to accommodate a well-regulated spongemonkey population in balance with the area’s indigenous species. The first several generations of these… things… will serve as a barometer for the viability of future population management. Left unchecked, these godawful walking carbuncles could render urban inhabitance more of a bother than it’s worth.
Are we or are we not the most important invasive species on this planet?!
Damn straight. Let’s get this taken care of.
Where do I even begin? Well, we stopped dropping the snakes down the hole and letting them just smack their bellies on the ground because this here sarcastic douchebag decided to get sensitive one day and say “geez, we sure do like hurting snakes!” We all looked at him like he had three or four heads, the favorite number of heads to picture an alien having when you’re gawking at this here guy who all of a sudden gives a damn about snake welfare.
They’re just damn snakes, they’re cold blooded. They’ve lived unchanged for millions of years now and they don’t give a damn about being slammed on the slab if it means we can sleep in peace. That’s right, sentient snakes who have been telepathically communicating with me for a good… seven years now. Wow.
So anyway, go on ahead with your little protest, we ain’t changing these rules for nothing or nobody.
—-TWO WEEKS LATER—-
BREAKING NEWS: SNAKES FEEL PAIN
Scientists Everywhere Urge Citizens:
“Discontinue Dropping Snakes on Slabs”
Jesus, what are the odds? We’ll probably never find out just how this study was started or funded, or how it coincided so perfectly with that sensitive douchebag making his impassioned plea down at the firehouse, but Sweet Lady Science has spoken, and we must heed her words.
It’s become more and more fashionable to sink capital into transforming your obedient pupperoo into a live-action cartoon pooch. Breed is neither here nor there; folks are more concerned with accuracy of likeness than anything else, often times leading to bizarre combinations of aesthetics.
What would happen if you were to combine a beagle and a toaster? Well if you can believe it, Permissia McSimmons has done just that! After getting the idea to construct a bagel costume for her constant companion, Chèvre Chaise, she took the theme one step further with a top-loading polished chrome car carrier. Her social media presence vaulted forward and never looked back from there.
Drinking all the coffee in the world still won’t keep me from passing out like a yellow-bellied stooge wielding a catcher’s mitt much too oversized for his gimpy left hand. Why a catcher’s mitt? Perhaps to shield from the harsh realities of 21st Century American living, or to comment on the perpetual competition bred into our species as though any other way were simply infeasible. Further introspection reveals that this set of details has no basis in literary circles, not unlike a diving Oscar wrangler tethered to a tugboat moored to a wharf comprised of 93% recycled mosquito netting. For the purposes of this exercise, the other 7% shall remain unexplored.
Ordinary sanctions wouldn’t apply to the effervescent pigeon toes for too much longer, scrutinizing the woes of foreverpenguins—adept at taking their time when you just want to get a movin’ to the promised land (or at least the land referenced in books of yore). What really must happen is a distancing from tyrants and despots who normally would have built their empires upon the sweat equity of the under-the-tablers brought around from the time of the Immeasurable Reckoning.
The new standard—a babe in the woods—must rear itself without even a kindly wolf or flyover pigeon at its disposal! While certainly not necessary in this predicament, self-sabotage becomes more likely with each passing day as doubt does its dubious duty of doling out a deluge of doldrums, waiting to be conquered through a steady, dedicated hand (though it knows the chances are quite slim in this here forest).
The kids are doing their kidly things again today, just the way they always do (until their hormones start flaring and they become walking orbs of self-pity just wallowing in their existential dross for as long as would be necessary for humans working on that whole enlightenment bit while also losing faith in the authorities once-espoused as the be-all end-all for retrograde composition of exquisite fanfare technology (though very little else when you actually think about it for longer than 10-15 seconds at a time)). Our lord and savior once said “you know, when it comes right down to it, I’m the one who created everything, so you can just go ahead and sell that model train collection, Deborah.” I don’t know who Deborah is in this particular verse, to be honest, but the statement still carries plenty of weight even if you don’t engage in any specific name-dropping activities.