Dear Diary,
As a waiter I have to deal with dishearteningly unsanitary conditions. Yesterday night I swept up a huge pile of debris on the floor. Then some of that debris got up and scampered away.
Walrus
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Even snuddies have good clean fun. Sometimes.
Today we went to the zoo and encountered a sea lion named Carlos who'd do anything for fish. Black, shiny whiskered ho! Walrus Mastur imagined him smoking outside his trailer, bitching about the trainers in a husky voice.
We also noticed a pair of ostriches copulating. There was a lot of flapping and neck-whipping involved.
We also noticed a pair of ostriches copulating. There was a lot of flapping and neck-whipping involved.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Ouwr
You don't know it, but we are the walrie. We. Are. The Walrie.
We lie in wait where the sun doesn't shine, soaking up darkness, perpetually pale and formless. We are frankly large, made of a shape too grotesque to be named. Our hearts beat in rhythm. Thud. Thud. Our breathing quickens obscenely when we see our prey; grows heavier, deeper, sporadic grunts betraying the urgency hidden beneath our layers of vibrating fat.
Our bowels rumble, and our loins quiver. Our erect whiskers twitch. They play in the sun, barking cheerfully, clapping inanely. There are games. There is fish. They are happy. If they had lips, their mouths would be permanently affixed with a vapid smile.
It's a wonder the ice doesn't melt and shatter around us, and we fall through with a deafening splash, sinking into the freezing water's sinister depths. We Are The Walrie, seconds away from thundering over and suffocating you with our wrinkled blubber, pinning you down without respect. It's a wonder you don't watch us watching you.
We lie in wait where the sun doesn't shine, soaking up darkness, perpetually pale and formless. We are frankly large, made of a shape too grotesque to be named. Our hearts beat in rhythm. Thud. Thud. Our breathing quickens obscenely when we see our prey; grows heavier, deeper, sporadic grunts betraying the urgency hidden beneath our layers of vibrating fat.
Our bowels rumble, and our loins quiver. Our erect whiskers twitch. They play in the sun, barking cheerfully, clapping inanely. There are games. There is fish. They are happy. If they had lips, their mouths would be permanently affixed with a vapid smile.
It's a wonder the ice doesn't melt and shatter around us, and we fall through with a deafening splash, sinking into the freezing water's sinister depths. We Are The Walrie, seconds away from thundering over and suffocating you with our wrinkled blubber, pinning you down without respect. It's a wonder you don't watch us watching you.
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