Satire on Life

Animals are lucky.

What distinguishes us from animals is the prospect of hope.

If animals knew that life mostly stinks then even maggots would be hanging themselves with little tiny nooses made from entrails which, fortunately for maggots, are always nearby.

Chickens would be hurling themselves into the gobs of passing foxes.

Cats would be smuggling themselves into crates of shark chum.

Hyenas would be dangling themselves from low branches on the Serengeti.

Leopards would be tying rocks to their ears and marinating themselves in muddy lakes to sushi-up for perennial lurkers like alligator.

And the big fuckers like whale and hippo would be adorning themselves with targets and indicating, ‘You there, my good man in the safari outfit — I’ll wait right here while you ready your rocket-launcher.’

I think you get my drift here.

But people hope that things will ‘look up.’

And of course they never do.

We get tortured on an hourly basis.

Not so long ago, animals [people] lived to be about 12, with a few staggering on to 30.

Now, supposedly thanks to the wonder of medicine, we’re all hanging on for at least a further 70 years.

And to what purpose?

In conclusion, yeah, thanks, God, for not making me a [hopeless] newt.