After tuba practice, I went to the mall to look at Carnivore Dolls. I’ve got: The Bobcat, The Crab Eating Mongoose, The Eurasian Badger, The Ethiopian Wolf, and The Giant Panda. I ain’t got: The Bush Dog, The Aardwolf, The Spotted Hyena, and multiple various others. My Dad only lets me get one at a time, which is totally lame. Johnny Bronson just gets the whole damn Annual Set mailed to him year after year after year–the lucky bastard. One of these days, I’m just going to run away from home, become my own Carnivore Doll, eat whatever stuff gets in my way. Mailbox: chew, chew, chew. Ice Cream Truck: chew, chew, chew. Homework: chew, chew, chew.
Yeah. Chewing’s good. But now I’ve got to decide what I’m going to tell that crummy old man who sits behind the counter. The one who really controls my fate. The one who can either let me or not let me play with the European Pine Marten right in the store. That thing is fucking great. He’s feisty. He’s moody. He’s grouchy.
He eats rodents, birds, and beetles. Also: he’s an excellent tree climber. Whenever I get to play with him, I make him climb all over the fucking place. He gets on people’s sweaters. He gets on people’s heads. He taunts and flaunts. He coasts and boasts. His fur is brown and full and lush. You really wouldn’t want to get on his bad side because even his good side is basically a bad side.
Yup. He’s one rough dude.
I really hope that I will get to play with him today. Play with him for own particular purposes.
Which basically are: to harm.
To harm and to harm and to harm.