there’s nothing sadder than a monkey
who’s grown pudgy, blown up chunky,
and become a Mars Bar junkie
just cause we’re genetically entwined
makes it neither right nor kind
to give them a bootilicious behind
when swinger’s branches threaten break
and under foot the earth it quakes
it’s then too late to lay off the cakes
when dealing with our friends furry
remember no ice cream or curry
no panicked food drop and scurry
I saw a review of Anne Rice’s book recently, and it got me thinking about how an actual interview with a vampire would go.
Interviewer (I): So, about this whole turning into a bat thing. It seems to me that a man is much bigger than a bat. Therefore, my first question is do you conserve mass? In other words, do you get really dense as a bat, and, if so, how do you even get off the ground? If not, you must shed mass, but then how do you get it back?
Vampire (V): I am the prince of darkness. I rule the night. I take whatever form suits my needs.
I: Well, that’s not really a proper answer, now is it? That’s sort of a politician on the Sunday morning talk shows answer.
V: [Bares fangs and growls]
I: Well then, moving on. Are you at all concerned about the many blood-borne illness out there: HIV, Hepatitis, Ebola, Rift Valley Fever, etc.?
V: I’m immortal. I can’t be killed by your puny germs.
I: So, that’s a… no?
V: Hrrumph!
I: Moving on. Have you ever had anyone put Vaseline on their neck or something else really gross–you know to prank you?
V: You suck!
I: One could say the same of you, my friend. Ha!… You know… because you suck on people’s necks… Well, then, moving on. Which would you rather have: a wooden stake to the heart or a silver bullet in the chest?
V: Silver bullets are for werewolves, you imbecile.
I: Yeah, but it’s still got to be quite unpleasant, wouldn’t you say?
V: [Sighs loudly] OK, I’d have to take the silver bullet, but the longer this interview goes on, the more fond I grow of the stake.
I: I love steak, too, but that’s besides the point. Any way, who would you rather have as an enemy: Bram Stoker’s Van Helsing, who’s very smart but has no kung fu; or the Hugh Jackman Van Helsing who’s all buff and studly but not the sharpest tool in the shed?
V: It matters not. They are both humans and, as such, no match for me.
I: Really, because in both the book and the movie…
V: [hisses like a rabid cat, fangs out] Human propaganda. Are we done yet?
I: Not quite. What’s the hurry? Got a hot rendezvous with a Victorian wench on the docket?… Anywho. What would you say are the pros and cons of working the night-shift? I’d think it would be rather easy to get a parking space, but, then again, you don’t really need one if you turn into a bat. But, then again, all that flapping must get tiring…
V: I’m out of here!
Hands of a surgeon,
Fins of a sturgeon…
Wait, no… that’s not right.
Let me admit that I have no gift
for mythical fliers that get lift.
One can’t just throw wings on a rat.
Of course you can, we call it a bat!
Alright, bad example…
One can’t draw wings on a whale,
and through the sky expect it sail.
Much better.
How did the likes of primitive man
create the myth of a flying orangutan?
They did no such thing.
Fair enough, then answer me this:
Who came up with ogres that eat babies?
Does a crescent-moon werewolf give you rabies?
Who first saw a spiraling dragon,
and how many drops remained in his flagon?
From whence came the fearless griffin
body of a lion and the head of a… chicken?
If by her shrill scream you know a banshee,
how’d you know it’s not any old woman she?
In how many beds are succubi layin’
in which the occupant ain’t already strayin’?
Leprechaun stories come from notorious drinkers,
and Gorgons and Sirens from a culture of thinkers.
My deficit, it seems, is as aligns with my fears.
Quick, get me a stack of books and a case of beers.
Three little birdies sat on a rail.
Two little birdies spoke of no avail.
“Sam, you’re just not one of us.”
“I’m not a bird, like you or Gus?”
“No. Some birds just don’t go together.”
“You mean the ones without any feathers.”
“No. Some birds are just kind of unique.”
“Yeah, I once saw one without any beak.
“Some birds are from very different type eggs.”
“We all have two legs, so what’s wrong–I begs.”
“It’s not that there’s anything wrong, per se–
It’s just that–well–we’re green, and you’re grey.”
“So you won’t sit on a rail, preen, or be seen
with any bird, unless its color is green?”
“Well, it just sounds silly when you put it that way.”
Taken October 12, 2013 in Agra, India
It’s a question that has been debated since the dawn of the Tuk-tuk. Like the question of how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie-Roll Tootsie-Pop, attempts to definitively answer the question have resulted only in controversy. The question?
HOW MANY PEOPLE FIT IN AN AUTORICKSHAW?
In the highfalutin cities, people think that nobody is supposed to ride upfront with the driver, but elsewhere they’ve figured out that you can put at least one man on either side of the driver (as long as the weight of each man is fairly evenly matched–there’s only one tiny front wheel after all.) How many one can fit in the back is influenced by the average yoga skill level of the riders and whether one has any Twister (TM) grand-champions on board.
There are myths of tuk-tuks containing entire villages tooling down the back-roads. Theoretical physicists tell us that you can pack them in until their density forms a self-sustaining black-hole, and then everybody out to the event horizon is drawn in… ya-da-ya-da-ya-da.
The answer is: “a lot.”
Taken at Fatehpur Sikri
Poor little rodent, run up a door.
Chattering and chattering, frantic, he swore.
Babel Fish Rodentia translated his words:
“It’s not bad enough, the cats and the birds,
hectic humans and their frantic pace,
always running about like they’re in a race.
Stuck on this peg for nigh half a day.
‘A break in the traffic’, I fervently pray.
Pfff! Bipedal humans with their gigantic feet
designed to crush chipmunks right in the street.”
What if the world that we know
is just a two-bit reality show
or some high-def video game?
Wouldn’t it be terrible lame,
if we were the toys of an alien race
of underachievers from deep outer space?
What if our planet currently resided
on a beat-up, old card-table–lopsided,
in the basement of a strung-out dude
who sat around in a cloud in the nude?
What if all of the wonder and foreboding
is just the result of some skillful encoding?
Taken Nov 10, 2013 at Bannerghatta National Park
The lion is a kingly beast
Whose eyes no lies can abide
If you don’t wish to be his feast
Please act with tact and don’t chide
He doesn’t take to teasing well
He’s still but to kill is in his blood
His placid face may look swell
But a strong heart pounds THUD-THUD…
THUD-THUD
&
another thing
He may look like a big plush toy
But he’s no fun for a girl or boy
Don’t get your kid a big feline
Unless your exit is a swift beeline
Taken October 8, 2013 in Bangalore.
I just missed the perfect picture of this cow using its hoof to push the button for the pedestrian crosswalk light. I’m kidding of course, Bangalore doesn’t have functioning buttons for the pedestrian crosswalks and the cows damn sure know it.
Monkeys always make me smile
Some have hair in human styles
Oh the vanity their locks betray
Can you spot the one with a toupee?
Faces so reminiscent of our kind
Eyes suggesting intelligent minds
Into their faces they’ll one day grow
but the youngsters all look like H. Ross Perot
They’ll sit on your car like they just don’t care
And screw the haters who stop and stare
Have you the courage to leave your mark
on the windshield of one who double parks
It amuses us that they sling their poo
So we banish them to the city zoo
But what of our words so vitriolic
We’re evolved to sling poo symbolic
Tiger Riding for Beginners 