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A Duck Reviews Duck Boots

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For the sake of this review, I’ll call them Murder Boots. The term Duck Boots is a decoy to hide the violence perpetrated against me and my feathered family. Do the rubber soles and flexible uppers keep human feet dry in the muddy Maine woods? Sure. Do I care they’ve facilitated generations of woodland slaughter? Yes. Am I morally opposed to the leather uppers? Let me put it this way. Any animal dumb enough to be domesticated, milked, and meated deserves what’s coming to them. Fortunately, the humans also seem to be domesticating themselves and the occasions for wearing Murder Boots: like trudging across snowy New England college campuses after blackout drunk hookups or slogging through the winter sludge of Boston on their way to their consulting firm jobs making PowerPoints about “right-sizing the workforce.” Pathetic, really. Waddling across the street with your family behind you and forcing cars to come to a screeching halt—that’s the way to go. No Murder Boots needed, although I mi...
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Tarsier

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Sometimes you have to challenge conventional wisdom, especially when conventional wisdom is a slurry of lies about how zombies, possessed children, and baby ghouls can’t be cute. The source of that contrarian notion? The tarsier. Wide amber eyes that stare through your soul and a mischievous, Gollum-esque smirk are enough to make you want to scoop the furry little bastard out of a tree and kiss the evil out of it. Just don’t call it a monkey. Tarsiers are very sensitive animals, both emotionally and to sunlight. Which is why they evolved those massive eyes to hunt any insect, frog, lizard, or crab stupid enough to shimmy up their trees. You might think tarsiers are the world’s smallest primates. Again, conventional wisdom is wrong. But they are the only primates worth owning if you’ve got a wicked insect infestation and the local exotic pet dealer owes you a favor. Also, don’t try smuggling one out of the Philippines or ask the customs officer if “he’d like to high five your little bud...
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Domino Cockroach

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The doomsday clock is 85 seconds to midnight, which means there’s a good chance we could all be dead tomorrow. But can you really say you’ve lived if you haven’t seen a domino cockroach? After all, they’ll out-survive us anyway. The best way to describe them is to pretend a 5-year-old captured a regular black beetle, suffocated it in a jar of gasoline, and painted white spots on it as an art project. Just dabbed the little fucker with whiteout 6 or 7 times. Now, would it still have 6 or 7 spots if the scrub forests of southern India where they live were blanked with ultra-concentrated radioactive fallout? Or would it have 19 spots, 47 legs, and enough sentience to team up with its friends and drive a tuk-tuk in a mad dash across the deserted streets of Delhi? Who’s to judge. Evolutionary biologists, probably, who already cast the domino beetle as another cheap mimic of a more fearsome creature—in this case, the six-spot ground beetle. Point being, when the bombs go off, sometimes it’s ...
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Tasselled Wobbegong

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I don't feel like writing about current events today, so I'll write about the tasselled wobbegong. You'd think it was some sort of cute salamander, but it's actually a shark. A very ugly, stupid-looking shark. Imagine a klutzy dad spilling pancake batter on a shag carpet in a vaguely shark-shaped pattern and that's a tasselled wobbegong. Don't think about why there's shag carpet in this dad's kitchen. That's beside the point. The point is this sea weirdo has survived for millions of years, largely off the coast of the Aru Islands. I could end with some insane platitude about us all needing to find our own Aru Islands, but I won't. That's not what the tasselled wobbegong would do. It would just bite your finger off.
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