written by Garrett (bird)
I'm a Air-Safety Consultant.
I work for the mining industry.
With the tragic mining incidents of late, I want to assure the public that we birds working in mine safety do not take our responsibility lightly. Donʼt let these bright and well-plumed feathers fool you - Iʼm not just something pretty to look at. Iʼm a highly trained first responder.
Itʼs my job to alert authorities if thereʼs a build up of toxic gas anywhere in the shaft. In many cases my expert judgment is the only thing that stands between you and the cold hands of death. I can tell the difference between getting tired from too many sunflower seeds and getting tired from methane gas. Can you? No offense, but I doubt it. Not unless youʼve been through the extensive training programs that I have. Nor can you probably differentiate between the benign flatulence of a miner and the deadly buildup of carbon monoxide. Again, I can.
I have nothing against all you birds out there who spend your days going back and forth between sunning yourselves and tapping on shiny bells. Hey, if thatʼs how they wish to spend your life, what business do I have telling you not to? Just donʼt expect me to join you anytime soon. If you want to find me, Iʼll be at work. Protecting lives.
written by Simon (turkey)
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Usually a day that is associated with the wholesale slaughter of your species would fall low on someoneʼs list of favorite holidays. But not mine. I choose to see the glass as half full. Iʼm an optimist. Thanksgiving forces turkey rafters to spend quality time together. Knowing any member of your family might not be there in the morning, having been grabbed before dawn, their head sliced off with the blade of a rusty axe, encourages you to cherish each moment. It brings urgency to say what we have to say to the ones we love.
Something that makes you live as if each day was the last, well, how can that be a bad thing? The truth is all of us can die at any time - drunk drivers, planes falling from the sky... At least turkeys have a clue when death might come. Think of all those poor rodents who died crossing the road and now sit in heaven with unfinished business. If I had to pick one thing that helps me keep my weight down, itʼs Thanksgiving. The fatter you are, the higher your risk of saying goodbye. Iʼll take Thanksgiving over Atkins any day.
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Thatʼs my motto. Like a said, Iʼm an optimist.
written by Jimmy (chicken)
Quick, think of a chicken dish in a Chinese restaurant. General Tsoʼs Chicken. Did I guess right? General Tsoʼs is by far the most popular chicken dish served in Asian restaurants. And why shouldnʼt it be? Itʼs named after a great military hero.
Only we chickens are good enough to share a dish with his name. They donʼt make General Tsoʼs Pig or General Tsoʼs Dog (at least not officially.) Itʼs an honor bestowed only upon chickens. An honor that comes at a great price, however. Remember, the more popular a dish is, the more it is ordered. See where Iʼm headed? More dead chickens. I have no idea what to get-- Wait a second! Iʼll have the General Tsoʼs Chicken. I donʼt even know whatʼs in it but if itʼs good enough for such a great General... Probably happens dozens of times a day. Suddenly sharing the dish with the general is not such an honor, is it?
General Tso Tsungtang had a very distinguished military career in the mid 1800s. He also suffered from malaria. Sorry. I donʼt know why I brought that. I donʼt want you to associate General Tso with malaria. Anyway, the dish wasnʼt invented by him nor did he ever taste it. As best historians can tell, it wasnʼt until a hundred years later (1974) that it first appeared in Pengʼs Szechuan/Hunan style restaurant in New York City.
Blah, blah. I donʼt care. Iʼm sure peaches donʼt care who Melba was either. What I do care about is that now millions of humans order it simply because itʼs named after a war hero. A war hero who had numerous bouts of dysentery, by the way. Oops. Sorry. I accidentally did it again. It would be a shame if you couldnʼt get dysentery out of your head every time you saw General Tso on a menu. Or malaria. Terrible disease, malaria. Not to suggest that dysentery is pretty either. So please try not to picture either malaria or dysentery in your mind every time you see the name General Tso.
Again, sorry I brought it up.
written by Mango (turtle)
When I entered the Boston Marathon I knew my changes of winning were close to zero. Despite the propaganda perpetuated in fairy tales, we tortoises do not win races. Nike has no reptile sponsorship program. There is no Ferrari F50 Tortoise. Like most marathon runners, I wasnʼt in it to win. I just wanted to finish.
Well, finish I did. To my surprise, I shattered the world tortoise record by a full 14 minutes with an official time of 5 years, 7 months, 27 days, 9 minutes and 8.326 seconds!
I had carbo-loaded the night before but would those calories last the years I needed them to? I didnʼt know. Did I overtrain and inadvertently set myself up for injury? Again, I didnʼt know. All I knew, as I crossed over the starting line that brisk April morning, was that I now had a race to finish.
As night began to fall I looked back and, still able to see the starting line, got depressed. I was already exhausted and had at least another 5 years of running still ahead of me. For the first time I began to think that maybe I had bit off more than I could chew. But I didnʼt quit. I lowered my head to cut the wind resistance and forged ahead, determined to make it to the end of the block by dawn.
The toughest part of a marathon, as most runners will tell you, is the mental. Unlike team sports, a runner is alone with nothing but his thoughts. What was I thinking about as I ran? My family, mostly. How wonderful and supportive they had been with my decision to enter the race. It was a tough call, knowing Iʼd miss seeing my kids grow up. Some tortoises may live to be 100 but thatʼs pretty rare. Most of us live about 25 years so this was a major sacrifice.
My wife and I made plans for her and the kids to be at the 15 mile marker to cheer me on. When I reached that point, however, they were nowhere to be seen. A thousand thoughts raced through my head - Were they okay? Did she meet another guy? It was pretty disheartening and, again, I thought about quitting. But I had been running for 3 years at that point and had a pretty good rhythm going. If I stopped I knew Iʼd never get started again. So I kept going. I found out later that they were late leaving the house and ended up reaching the 15 mile mark 2 weeks after I had already passed.
Will I run again? I donʼt think so. Iʼm a world record holder now. Might as well quit while Iʼm on top, right? Iʼm gonna take some time off and get to know my family again. And, of course, wait for Nike to call.
written by Donald Whitetail (deer)
Psst! I've got some NO HUNTING signs for sale. Check out these babies. Top quality all the way. These are the kind they sell in Beverly Hills sign shops. No black marker on a piece of cardboard here, my good friend. Look how bright that printing is! A hunter would have to be blind not to see these across a field. And they're made by professionals so you can be guaranteed these honeys won't fade.
Don't worry about how I got 'em. Wanna buy or not?
I see you're hesitating. Probably don't think you need 'em. You'll just stay clear of hunters, is that your plan? Let me paint a little scenario for ya: You and the Misses are hanging out in your normal field, lunching on some staghorn lichen. You look up. What's that? Why, it's a hunter! What's to stop him from shooting you and your better half right then and there? Your keen skills at negotiation? Your stealth-like ability to blend into the bushes? Don't think so! No, what keeps you off that hook on the wall of the lodge is a few top quality NO HUNTING signs. Coupla these around the field and he CAN'T shoot you. I'm offering you more than just signs here, my friend. I'm offering you peace of mind.
These bad boys are going like hot cakes so if you're serious about protection, I suggest you ante up now. How many do you want? I need an answer. Others are waiting to buy.
I also have a limited amount of BEWARE OF DOG signs if that's more up your alley.
written by Wally (walrus)
Iʼm tired of hearing about Shark Week on TV. "Theyʼre scary! Theyʼre bloodthirsty! Donʼt want to miss Shark Week!!"
Let me tell you something about sharks - wimps. All of ʻem. You heard me. Every one of us trash-covered walrusʼ scattered along these slimy rocks can kick the butt of any shark we wanted to. We just donʼt want to.
Sharks attack divers, we lay in the sun and eat garbage thrown from tour boats. Itʼs just a different choice, thatʼs all. They deserve their own week on TV and we donʼt? "Oh, but theyʼre fierce," you argue. "They make for good TV." We can be fierce if we choose to be. We just donʼt choose to be. See these tusks? These babies can gouge out the guts of a diver any day of the week. Pick a day and Iʼll show you. Iʼm serious. As long as itʼs in the afternoon, after my nap.
Iʼll show you how fierce a walrus can be, my friend. Weʼre talking bloodthirsty like you wouldnʼt believe! In fact, you know what? Iʼll show you right now. Come over here and knock one of these Dr. Scholls foot pads off me. Just TRY! I dare you!
If you can wait until later though, Iʼd appreciate it.
written by Flankins (dove)
Seven years I worked for The Amazing Stephan. And in all those seven years, when it came time to pop out of his dumb hat, did I ever miss a cue? Never!
So how does Mr. Amazing show his thanks? He promotes Felix to Head Dove. Felix! The Amazing Stephan can kiss my lily-white tail feathers.
And by the way? There's a hidden compartment in the bottom of his hat.
"Work for me and I'll show you the world," he promised. I'll tell you what he showed me - the inside of every motel chain in Ohio. That, and how he knows what card you picked because he placed a mirror on the back wall. Forty minutes a night I was stuffed under the armpit of someone who drinks bar gin by the quart. It was no picnic.
The only thing amazing about the Amazing Stephen is that his liver still works. Maybe he should use his magic powers to conjure up a book on hygiene, that's all I'm saying. The Olympics are coming up so I can probably get some freelance work in the opening ceremonies.
If you hear of any good job openings for a dove, let me know. And keep your eyes on his left hand when he saws the woman in half - you can see him move the hidden latch.
written by Sam (bull)
Dear Ranch Owner,
I'm not a vet or anything but I may have E-coli.
I've been feeling a little weird recently. It might just be a cold or the flu or something but why take the chance? If I were you I'd sneak me off this ranch as soon as possible. You probably want to run some tests first, make sure it definitely is E-coli. That's understandable. Follow the normal protocol and all that.
If it was me though, I wouldn't risk the delay.
What if the meat inspector shows up tomorrow morning by surprise? He'll kill ALL the cows just to be safe. An empty ranch isn't worth much. It's your decision, of course, and I know it isn't up to me. I'm just saying. Look, I know what the future holds for me - I continue to eat beer-soaked grain until the day I walk into that Barn Of No Return over there and you sell my meat to a butcher. That's right, I know. I've seen the PETA videos. I'm not happy about the situation but what can I do, make a run for it? We both know I wouldn't get far. Then again, maybe I'll get far enough to reach a pay phone and call the meat inspector. Why risk the whole ranch when you could just sneak me off the grounds tonight with the promise I won't make that call? You can't pay the mortgage with just beer-soaked grain. Maybe I don't have E-coli. Than again, maybe I do. Getting me off this ranch as soon as possible might just be your best insurance policy.
written by Princess (cat)
Nature's Miracle removes pet odors from carpets and upholstery. Itʼs a good product but letʼs be honest, what it does - not really a miracle.
Iʼm not saying removing urine odor is easy. But doing something the rest of us canʼt do doesnʼt automatically elevate it to miracle status. According to Wikipedia, a miracle is a "divine intervention by God in the Universe by which the ordinary course and operation of Nature is overruled, suspended, or modified."; In other words, turning water into wine or raising the dead. Maybe even getting all those clowns into one car. But pouring something onto cat piss and making the room no longer smell like cat piss? Sorry. Application for sainthood rejected.
You donʼt have to be a believer to know that Jesus is considered the number one miracle worker. Heʼs like the Michael Jordan of Unexplained Stuff. So you would think that if removing pet odors was worthy of miracle status, Jesus would have done that too, right? After all, he did all the other stuff. Doesnʼt the fact that Jesus DIDNʼT get rid of animal piss smells tell us something about its lack of status as a miraculous endeavor? Nowhere in the bible does it say, "And Jesus pourth the liquid onto the urine and it was good."
Calling it Natureʼs Miracle cheapens real miracles. I urge you to write to the company and suggest they change the name to something less provocative like Natureʼs Cool Trick or Natureʼs Thing That YOU Canʼt Do; Feel free to come up with your own. These are just suggestions.
And for the record, I will be writing to the Miracle Whip people next.
written by Chickers (penguin)
Yeah, I'm the guy - the first penguin to file for divorce.
I know, I know, penguins stay together for life. Look, I'm sorry to screw up that perfect record but I just couldn't take her nagging: "Don't leave raw fish around the ice block." "Why is there blubber in the cod liver oil container?" Jeez! Who wants to hear that cackling twenty-four-seven for the rest of their life?
I proposed to her with an exquisite shiny pebble. It took FOUR MONTHS to find! (You try finding a nice-looking pebble on a ice flow.) She was grateful for about a week. Then it became, "How come I no longer get shiny pebbles?" "How come I'm always the one regurgitating fish for dinner?" I'll tell you what the last straw was. I was on the glacier with the other fathers (you know the drill - keeping the egg warm while she heads back to the ocean to get food) and how long do you think she was gone? A month? Month and a half? Try 65 days! I don't care how slow you waddle, it doesn't take 2 months to get to the beach and back. I'm freezing my tail off in the katabatic winds and she's out frolicking at the shore with the girls! A penguin can only take so much! So go ahead and judge me for breaking penguin tradition. I don't care. I just want out. And next winter, while you're on the glacier wondering when your other half is coming back, think of me. I'll be in Patagonia with a six pack of bait, checking out the scene. I'll be free as a bird and living like a lion - procreating and moving on to the next one. That, my friends, is why lions are the kings.