Gazelle Noise Complaint Letter to Zoo Management

Above is a picture of Garth-Floyd (foreground) sunning himself with his half-brother Cleavon just hours before writing this letter.

Below is Garth-Floyd's grievance letter, which cites his condemnation of zoo's owl population -- namely their obtrusive hooting. 

Dear Zookeeper,

I'm a sensitive type.  Sensitivity comes with the territory of bein' a gazelle, you know. Just the way God made us. But---I just gotta make a complaint.  You gotta do something about the owls. Evict em, send ‘em packing.  If you don’t, I will.

I’ll break it down for you -- nice and simple like. I spent all morning and all my afternoon trottin’ around the fence, makin’ the kiddies smile. “Ohhhh look at the pretty deer,” they squeeled. Note: I ain’t no damn bambi.  But…what do I do? I skip, and leap, and otherwise pretend to…frolick.   Oh, I hate myself. The things I do for a handful of feed.  

So, tonight, I really need the peace and quiet. But, to be fair, I am feeling pretty swell.  I finally got that saucy lioness, Chompserella, to agree to hop her fence to go on a date with me!  We are gonna rendezvous at the elephants' watering hole.  Boy howdy, you shoulda seen her.  Her eyes lit up.  She told me she liked the sensitive types like me. She even licked her lips, hot damn!  So if these damn owls mess this up, I’m gonna be mightily ticked.

So, to get on with it, I need my beauty sleep tonight, you see.  Gotta look all fresh and irresistible for my date tomorrow. 

And if these owls know what’s best for ‘em they better shut their beaks -- or else me and Chompsy are going to have them for dessert tomorrow night.

-Garth-Floyd the Gazelle

Editor’s Note:  Garth-Floyd did not survive his date with Chompserella the lioness. Chompsy did, however, have the owls for dessert.

Seymour Seagull's Second Suicide Note

The above is a picture of Seymour.  Perhaps his mental illness stems from the fact that he thinks he's a seagull though he's clearly... not.

The below is his second (last?) suicide note.  To read his first, click here: Seymore's First Note

Well, as you might have guessed, I'm still alive.  Not a zombie, not a vampire, just a forsaken soul.  

Here's how it went down the first time it didn't go down: I was flying due west into the horizon.  I prayed for a brisk gust of wind to send me spiraling down, down, down into the sea.  My wish was granted, praise Gaia. But, alas, I had forgotten how well seabirds float. We float very, very well. We're bastards. 

So I regroup and I rally: This world-weary and regrettably buoyant soul lives to try again!  

New Plan: I have decided I shall feed myself to one of the more absurd looking foofoo dogs who wander these grounds led on Italian leather leashes by their masters, the fools.  I think death by Poodle would be a fine end to my mockery of a life.  I shall walk right up to the pitiful beast and climb into its toothy mouth.  

And if these bones and these feathers resist defeat by Poodle, I shall commission a larger creature -- perhaps a  Labradoodle -- to do the deed.

If not by Poodle, then surely by Labradoodle, I shall find peace.

~Seymour   

Heartbroken Hamster Haiku

The above is what Rascal would have created -- had he been born a painter and not a poet.

Below are seven haikus penned by Rascal, a garden variety hamster.  They are written about Charlotte, a particularly striking blonde angora hamster with whom Rascal spent the first few weeks of his life at the PetSmart in Culver City, CA.     

The poetry was written over the course of his two and a half year lifespan.  

I eat over here.

I run yonder, in the wheel.

I poop over there.

I sleep next to her,

Safe in a nest with her, and them.

Life is good, for now.

* * *

Where’d it all go, my...

My warmth, my nest, my love, her?

I miss the pet shop.

Now daytime is for :

Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep Sleep

And to dream of her.

Wonder where she sleeps,

Still safe in a nest with them?

Does she remember?

* * *

It’s been two years now

I’m on my last leg, I think

But I’m not afraid.

I’ll see you soon, love

If hamsters go to heaven.

A nest in the sky.

Bunny Angry Letter to Apple

Above is a picture of the last rabbit Steve Jobs would ever want to come across in a blind alley.

Below is a complaint letter from Reggie, the world's most frustrated lagomorph, detailing his issues with the wildly popular Apple iPad.

Dear Apple,

I hope all is well over in Cupertino.  I’d love to check the weather there -- but my iPad won’t respond to the touch of my fuzzy-wuzzy bunny paw.  WTF, Steve Jobs? W...T...F?!

You think I slaved away stealing four hundred ninety-nine dollars worth of goddang parsnips and yams from that d-bag Mr. McGregor’s farm for nothing?

Considering I can only count to five, four hundred and ninety-nine is a shit ton of crap.  Do you even know how many rabbit turds are in a shit ton of crap? I sure don't know.  I’d love to ask Wolfram Alpha -- or hell, I’d stoop to use Yahoo, but again, I’m too friggin’ fuzzy to interact with your “game-changing” device. Game-changing my woolly cottontail butt.  Part of me really wants to go all Bunnicula on your ass.

Well, Apple, that’s really all I have to say.  I guess I’ll just invite my pals Christopher Robin, Donnie Darko, and Brer Fox over so they can take turns playing Angry Birds while I sit and watch...sick with envy. 

-Reggie Rabbit 

Dog Diary Entry

The above is Fifi (left) commiserating with her pal Buster on the rec room couch of the La Veranda Assisted Living Home in Boca Raton, Florida.

The below is a diary entry of a dog suffering from an identity crisis.

Dear Diary:

It was on again today, that documentary about the wolves.   I feel a certain irrefutable kinship to those beasts, yet when I look in the mirror all I see is an innocuous poofball staring back at me with glistening adorable eyes instead of the cold stare of the wild.  I somehow doubt those magnificent relatives of mine suffer the luxury of living in a retirement home.

Speaking of self-esteem issues, I fell down them again today, the stairs.  I ass-slid for what seemed like days before regaining my footing. Thought I’d ass-slide for miles into some horrifying abyss where I’d lose all hope of finding out what’s at the top of those damn, humiliating steps. 

I’m in the midst of some existential crisis, I think. I cannot seem to come to terms with the incessant fluffiness of my very being.

I suppose I should think deeply about my place in the world.  I will have to do that later as now it’s knitting time and I have a lap to keep warm.

Duties are duties, whether it be killing antelopes for sustenance or holding down a ball of yarn for the duration of craft hour. 

Sigh.

~Fifi

Kraken Letter to Santa

The above is an artist's rendering of a festively adorned sea beast (not to scale.)

The below is a letter to Santa Claus from a frustrated kraken:

Dear Santa:

I hope this letter makes it to the North Pole in time.  I gave it to a mackerel who said he was meeting an eel buddy of his about halfway to the arctic who’s delivering a Yule log to a polar bear who - as luck would have it - is intending to eat a penguin that hangs out near where you and Mrs. Claus live.  

At any rate, my Christmas Wish this year is just some advice from one fictitious fellow to another: How do you get people to believe in you, Santa?   I think it’s amazing what following you have and if I could just get a cruise ship captain to acknowledge and maybe even fear me a little, I’d be soooo happy.

So, if you could just write back with some words of advice, I would really appreciate it.  Also, if you want to toss one of those tasty elves overboard when you’re above the Indian Ocean this Christmas Eve, I’d be deeply thankful.  I’m having some mermaids over for cocoa later and they just go nuts when I put the little dismembered pixie parts in with the marshmallows.

Hope all is well. Give the missus my love.

~The Kraken

Starfish Letter to the Editor

Above is Burt's "happy place," an illusory safe haven Burt retreats to when his anger management issues get out of line.

Below is the letter from a very upset starfish to the editor of a very popular line of self help books.

Dear Guy Who Came Up With That Stupid Inspirational Starfish Story,

You know who you are.   Every time I hear that story about the guy walking on the beach who throws the beached starfish back in the ocean because “it makes a difference to that one,” I spew a little in my mouth. 

You might as well get together with Guy Who Wrote The Ubiquitous Jesus Footprints On The Beach Story and take turns immersing each other in a bowl of extra hot chicken soup for the soul. 

No, seriously.   Here I am, a tired, weary starfish (my name is Burt, not that you care) out for a serene ocean-side stroll when POOF some holier-than-thou brat tosses my spiny ass back into the cold dark sea without even asking how I feel about it.   And all in the name of sentimentality.

You know what, last time I did something that sentimental I was sixteen. I made a mixed tape for a girl -a scallop named Delia, dang, she was smokin’ - who I intended to shtup after junior prom.   Let’s just say I’ve learned a lot since I put a Death Cab for Cutie track anywhere near The Beta Band.

I mean I get it, you’re one of those do-gooders.  That’s nothing to go to hell for, I guess.  But you know what, dude: I am a person, not a metaphor!

You know what would “make a difference” to me?   If you would just shut up!

Kindly,

-Burt [Last Name Redacted]