So I was headed to the zoo with a pal of mine. We had a plan, it was early, it was sunny, hell I even had morning wood. Everything was going smoothly. We got there right at the tail end of the gushing, fluid crowd that was not too unlike a clan rally. Only this one was in support of different creatures.
He’s gonna fuck you.
We mumbled and griped our way to the front of the line until the great overseer of Zoological Tourism allowed us entrance into the holy village of displayed nature. Good man. We broke from our ranks like tree branches in an apocalyptic storm.
We figured the best place to start would be the reflection of our obvious smooth, coolness. We took to the Arctic Exhibit, just as Pytheas had before us on an honorable quest to the black depths in search of tin. He didn’t find tin, but he did find out quickly that Polar creatures didn’t need metals to make their lives easier, they just needed more curious Greeks like Pytheas to come walzing into their frozen desert like a pizza boy into a gang-rape scenario. Their plan wasn’t all that farfetched. The Exhibit held many impressive denizens of abyssal, frozen, planes of Hell. We enjoyed throwing assorted munchies at their noses and baiting them with well thought-out insults aimed towards their mothers and sisters. Whether it was strict mental discipline or just a raw, apathetic distaste for English that kept them to their inactivity we will never know, but goddammit, we came out of that debate the victors. Fucking penguins think they know everything just because they were born in a tuxedo. I despise things with silver spoons in their ass, even if it is a semi-aquatic arctic bird-fish, its not better than me. Once our agressions had been released onto the obstacle course home of our polar friends we made our way to the African exhibit. Africa has always held some kind of mystique to its chest like those statues ancient tribals built so elegantly to hold torches to theirs. It could be the primal feeling of truly “Coming Home” Only home is either a deceitful representation of the environment of Jungle Book or a litter-box full of eleven-year-old turds with guns high on brown-brown that want all things from the less harsher world to feel the sting of their rage. Either way, it looked really cool so conscience be damned, we were going to see some lions.
When we came to the sub-entrance of the Savannah ride, we were met by a tall Nigerian man who was displaying the culture he escaped for a paycheck and selling out by every definition of the term.
A quick minute to heave around some thoughts on selling out if you please, and if you don’t, fuck you I’ll put in something remotely important to the story here if you think you’re just too cool to skip my asides. Selling out has its varied and tried methods. All of them are evil and are tantamount to shitting out runny hotsauce flavored diarrhea into an azure pool of integrity. A man who has trekked across a hemisphere from a very proud heritage and beautiful land in order to buy into a system built on exploitation and elaborate plots to ensure high cash figures was, probably at some time, an alright guy but the second he chose to represent the culture that he ran away from at a very expensive imitation of said culture he became: A self-righteous puddle of cat puke on the floor of a donkey stable running low on materials. That being said, he was a very nice man with a damn cool accent.
We get through the announcer extrapolating on the dying African culture and the Sun God of the Shakalaka Tribe by the hair on our pelvises. It was a close call but we made it. Anyway, the safari wagon took off….on its predestined track that completely leaves the tires obsolete. Just a series of accepted technological constituents on which to base our imaginations to build some monument of natural appreciation that will, one day, drive us to return and relish in all the bullshit we endured here. We jumped ship, or rather, jumped bus-cart. It had to be done. I saw a lion, nearly had a hernia, got dizzy, felt tears, quelled tears, tightened my asshole, and lept off the cart with my teammate. Before anyone REALLY noticed we were gone, we had already escaped into the bush. I gained the ability to call it “The Bush” as soon as I bailed on the collegiate study crew of mid-wives and walking sphincters and joined The Hunt. In The Bush, that we found was not nearly as thick as previously assumed, we spotted a few avians local to Ohio, which really pissed on the scene but hey, the Truth was the Truth.
At the edge of The Bush, we had to devise a plan. We took inventory. We had nothing. We tried again. We found the last of the pot. It was green but the sack was gold so we transfered the obvious worth to the bowl we smoked and felt like gilded heroes of The Savage Lands. As soon as you become stoned in the wrong setting, the Hunter S. Thompson archetype activates in the brain and you lose all manners of acceptable planning skills. We were free! God itself could have come down and only been met by a double-wide middle finger straight from the heart of honesty, unclouded by the sobriety enforced by his maniacal Earth-dwelling minions. Fully-charged and radiating magnetic sunshine, we marched out of The Bush valiantly. Upon realizing what we had just done, there was much regret, but turning back never won any races and I don’t know what that means but we were heading foreword regardless of whether or not there was a foreword to head to.
The second incarnation of The Bush was another mass of tangles and sharp, unseen, adversaries. Nothing two hard-boiled machinations of triumph couldn’t march through no doubt. After all, it WAS only an exhibit and we are most certainly not people someone could label as “Bitches.” We outrun The Bush. It got heavy. There were trees and plants and it was full of fucking animals! Real-life, jungle denizens that had stomachs larger than my I.Q. in inches and claws the same shape, but much larger than, my own dick. It was pure terror. I understood completely why the Nigerian man bailed on this. I wasn’t even there for real and it was like being injected with fear by a chainsaw! On the outskirts of The Bush, we came to a watering hole in an area of the Toledo Zoo that looked quite a bit like a Discovery Channel special. Only this special bore real water and real fruits. The Munchies become more of a problem in the “Wild” and we needed some citrus, bad. Calypso must have heard our prayers because holy citrus rained from the tree in a droplet of incredibly thick-skinned, downward-moving, hateful intensity. It hurt so good.
While heavily indulged in animalistic feeding, we did not catch sight or, surprisingly enough, wind of the massive grey behemoth that was barreling at our watering hole. After a slight pang of betrayal, I deemed it worthy to split. Turns out, I appraised the situation correctly. The Elephant was thirsty enough to drink for five-minutes straight and, not willing and too high to let a chance like this slip through my sticky fingers, my teammate and I snuck around to each side of the Behemoth. I was blatantly astonished by the utter awesome that was standing before me, taking in its’ necessary liquids in such a majestic and eloquent way.
If anyone knows how to wield irony to its most deadly and effective capacity, her name is Nature. Sometimes we call her “Mother”, but she knows we mean “Master.” Respect for Nature is given in one of a few ways at a time, through the same means as we respect the primordial life-giver with rituals and prayer, through patting ourselves on the back for being masterfully content with the world, or by way of cowering before the most clear and present danger. At the time, I was thoughtfully engaged in the first while my teammate was aiming for a reversal of number three. He wanted the Elephant to cower before his established clear and present danger, so to fulfill his dream, he whipped himself out and shot a hot, yellow, river of justice into the face of the Behemoth. His plan was going smoothly at first, everything in working order, but as soon as the Behemoth felt its’ sufficiency to be sufficed it reared onto its’ hind legs and began to push the air through its trunk in a scream of war. We chose to revere Master Nature in the third way, only during this particular ceremony we would be incredibly mobile.
Anyway, I figure I’m going to die in this infernal zoo so this is the last anyone will hear of me. I don’t know where my Teammate is right now but I imagine the Gorillas have taken excellent care of their new king. I swear to Fuck the Bastards always win.