In the brief history of human/marsupial relations, how many people do you think have kicked a living opossum? Not in a Mark Mosley sort of way but more of a “be gone you nasty rat thing and spoil my lawn no more” kinda of way. Or both maybe. Either way, I presume I have joined a very small union of people who have accomplished this feat. And like riding on Air Force One or going under the North Pole in a submarine, I expect receive a certificate from the navy shortly.
In other fuzzy animal news, my cell phone is no more. The antenna was made out of a sheet metal screw and duct tape. And the dog puncture-chewed the speaker so you couldn’t hear any high frequency audio. If somebody got excited or had a particularly squeaky voice, the sound would drop out. I missed several calls from Jane Wiedlin.
This is considered animal news because the display screen options on the phone were limited to pictures of nature, swaths of primary colors or a toggling set of assertively adorable animal photos. Behold:
This was, of course, the background option I chose because I’m a 37 year-old admin assistant in Cedar Rapids and my glasses are on a jeweled chain and there is cat hair on my sweater and I wear ill-fitting bras. So, I was especially distraught when the phone needed to be retired and puppy-bunny-kitty had to go. Ahhh, puppy-bunny. He can has mah cheezburger.
I tried to get animal photos to transfer to my new phone but Verizon and LG would have nothing of it. They will live on forever now on the internets.
This is the first picture I took with my new camera phone, a luxury that has quickly been abused.
It’s a vending machine that sells individual beers at a nursing home bowling alley. It is awesome and I need one near my house or the dog park.
This is the second picture I took. It’s the pornographic cake from the first Dismemberment Plan show. Or it was. Behold the ravages of age and indie sugar fury.
Puppybunny is dead. Long live puppybunny.