Humor
Red Alert: A Man Has Fallen into the Mrs. Doubtfire Cage At the Zoo
Hellooooooo lawsuit
Since we first imprisoned a Mrs. Doubtfire in our zoo, we knew this day would come: a man has fallen into her cage and it’s only a matter of time before he’s torn to pieces. Our Mrs. Doubtfire (lovingly nicknamed “Fangs,” after her extra set of razor sharp teeth she was born with) has gotten pretty aggressive over the last few years. Part of this is no doubt because we’ve been feeding her exclusively by throwing cakes in her face. I honestly thought that’s how they liked to be fed, but with the gift of hindsight, I can see how it would brew some resentment.
From my understanding, the victim observed Fangs vacuuming her cage and dancing to rock and roll music. He was so excited by the idea that chores could be fun that he jumped in to join her. What he failed to consider was there’s nothing fun about being beaten to death by an 8-foot tall, 400 pound Mrs. Doubtfire (Fangs is one of the biggest recorded Mrs. Doubtfires in the country).
We may have to send someone in there with a flamethrower to do a controlled burn on Fangs’ breasts. Blasting a Mrs. Doubtfire’s chest with flames is basically their only weakness. Of course, it’s possible that it won’t be effective because we’ve done it so many times already. As a zoologist, I believe it’s funny when Mrs. Doubtfire’s breasts catch on fire. There’s a pretty good chance she’s built up an immunity to it, or worse, it might even power her up. There’s still a lot we don’t know about these creatures and I’m not risking a man’s life to find out.
But unfortunately, the situation is only getting worse. Mrs. Doubtfire is currently teaching life lessons to the victim. From what I can see in the security camera footage, she’s even acting as something of a matriarchal figure to him, gently comforting him by explaining things like love and divorce. It’s unlikely that this man will ever reassimilate to society. He’s more Doubtfire than human now.
Still, if there’s a chance to save him, we’ve got to act. I just gave the order to take the machines we use to freeze the Dippin’ Dots and blast Fangs with them. Oh no. What’s she doing? No Fangs! Don’t! Jesus Christ! She just Silence of the Lambs’d our zookeeper and strung up his corpse like an angel! And by the looks of it, she’s headed right my way. The victim appears to be unharmed, though, which is just my luck. There’s a perfectly good man sitting right there, just waiting to be killed, but she chooses to take out years of suppressed rage on her captor instead.
I can hear the pounding on the door now. It’ll never hold. Fangs may look like a little old British lady, but she has the strength of a 42-year-old divorced dad. I still remember the day we captured her. It wasn’t my first time seeing a Mrs. Doubtfire in person. My platoon was overrun by a stampeding herd of them in Nam. That herd wiped out more of my friends than the Viet Cong did. I thought I’d get some closure by imprisoning and observing one up close. But a latex mask will always eventually slip; the inevitable cannot be avoided and it’s time to pay the piper. I can hear the pitter patter of her overgrown toenails we never bothered to trim scraping across the floor. Every so often I hear a loud sniff. She can smell my fear.
Perhaps we never should have put a Mrs. Doubtfire in our zoo. Maybe Mrs. Doubtfires should be allowed to roam free, where they can travel as a group, mate with one another, become estranged from their offspring, and then re-enter their lives through whimsical masquerading misadventures. Regardless, it’s too late now. She’s broken down the door. It’ll only be moments before she skins me alive and feasts on my flesh. Reader, heed my warning and say the Lord’s prayer. For just as a bell can never be unrung, a Mrs. Doubtfire’s fury can never be contained. May God have mercy on us all.
