The Gnawing Gomer Donkey

The Gnawing Gomer Donkey belongs to a renegade band of disenfranchised pack-animals that were originally known for scouring the Andes Mountains in search of slow-moving prey like quadriplegic midgets and Canadian tourists. A recent escalation in aggressive behavior among this marauding herd has been attributed to a disturbing trend marked by an increase in substance abuse among the herd's members. Dr. Horatio Fernandez, a mammalogist from the University of Buenos Aires who has spent nearly two decades in the field studying the behavior of the gnawing gomer donkey, maintains that the increase in aggressive behavior among the herd began after it overpowered a caravan of clinically depressed rodeo clowns who were smuggling crack into Argentina in March of 2005. Dr. Fernandez says that he watched in horror as the gnawing gomer donkeys gnawed their way into a large wooden crate that was loaded with cocaine. In a brazen effort to verify the contents of the crate, Dr. Fernandez braved subfreezing temperatures, doo doo ticks, and rabid llamas as he crawled on his belly through a rock slide in order to get a closer look. "That's how I got the chlamydia," he later told his incredulous wife. His worst fears confirmed, Dr. Fernandez watched in awe as the herd scaled a 2000 foot tall rock face in just under three seconds. According to Fernandez's GPS data and official reports, the herd sprinted for 3oo miles before stopping to raid a meth-lab and push a 6000 ton boulder over onto a Bolivian border-town. Experts say that the herd now feeds exclusively on crack to the extent that when they defecate, only powder comes out.

Carlos Mendez, a Bolivian goat herder from a small mountain village in Oruro recently survived a rare encounter with one of the vile beasts. Said Mr. Mendez: "I see a wolf near my goats and I say: 'Bah! There are no wolfs [wolves] in Bolivia.' But I run at him with my stick and say: 'Go! You go, bad wolf!' But the wolf, he does not run away so I run to hit him with the stick and when I get close I say: 'Whoa! You are not wolf! You are I don't know what!' He have eyes like el diablo and he have the white stuff all over his face! And teeth like this (Mr. Mendez raises his upper lip in an effort to exhibit buckteeth.) He had not much fur and he smell like potatoes. He look at me and make a noise like: 'Gnurrrr!' Like this!" (Mr. Mendez gurgles spit in his throat and his eyes grow wide.) Mr. Mendez was fortunate to have survived his encounter. But for a loaf of flower bread - dropped by Mendez - that the gomer donkey mistook for a bundle of crack, the unassuming Bolivian goat herder would doubtless have been gnawed upon. Later, however, the "wolf" turned out to be a lost and emaciated Canadian tourist who was simply asking for water.

The Pounding Boner-Possum

The Mustela Phallusenormis - also known as the "odious penis weasel", the "cock rat", or the "pounding boner-possum" - is a carnivorous weasel that is indigenous to the mountain forests of French Guiana. This seemingly benign mammal makes its home in burrows, hollowed out in the root-structures of Balata trees. The mature male will grow to approximately 50 centimetres in length and can weigh as much as 24 kilograms. The odious penis weasel has long, brown, matted fur that obscures its limbs and drags along the ground when it walks. The male of the species is the only creature in existence that is known to tailor clothing for itself. It fashions for itself a primitive loin cloth of sorts out of dried bark and tree-sap. This article of "clothing" is purely functional as it serves as a container for the weasel's immense penis.

Weighing on average 8 kilograms, the penis of the Mustela Phallusenormis comprises nearly half of the animal's total weight. Even more shocking is the tremendous dexterity of the penis. The approximately 80 centimetre long penis serves, more or less, as a fifth limb and is capable of slithering like a snake. In fact, most males , when moving over longer distances, will ride atop their own slithering penises and can reach speeds as high as 30 kilometers per hour!

The odious penis weasel can and will only achieve an erection when sexually aroused, enraged, or simply frightened. When this occurs, the penis reaches lengths of up to 1 meter and can weigh as much as 10 kilograms (consequently, the females of the species are commonly referred to as piñatas.) The erection is achieved in 20 milliseconds, causing the weasel's bark undies to explode with a loud pop that is said to resemble the report of a 20 gage shotgun. When the weasel achieves an erection, glands near its testis secrete a powerful hormone that causes the animal to become highly aggressive and irrational. In this frenzied state, these weasels have been known to thrash their turgid penises about violently, causing incredible damage to their surroundings. In a recent study, biologists from the National University of Columbia placed a male cock rat in a steel box that had 2 centimetre thick walls lined with load cells. Their intent was to measure the average force of the weasel's penis-strike. The weasel was electrocuted in a successful and ultimately tragic effort to induce the erectile frenzy.

The force of the ensuing erection was unprecedented! Mustafa Hamza, a Kuwati graduate student in biology at the University and the only surviving witness of the boner-possum's erectile frenzy stated that: "It was horrible, this boner was! A big big boner and very mighty, like fists of Allah it smite us!" After utilizing its beefy dong to punch a gaping hole in the side of its steel enclosure, the boner-possum burst forth and commenced to decimate the lab and annihilate its captors. Dr. Emilio Gomez, the team's senior zoologist, became the first casualty when he attempted to restrain the animal with a trained attack-chimp. The chimp sustained minor contusions and a lacerated cornea before fleeing the scene. The professor, however, did not fare so well. The boner-possum charged Dr. Gomez and shattered both knee-caps with a single blow of its rock-hard weener. "Dr. Gomez look at me and wave his hands and he say 'Run, Hamza, run!!!!', but I did not run. I climb up onto the cabinet and pray to Allah for dynamite vest or scimitar to make jihad on possum's boner. Then I hear Dr. Gomez legs go 'CRUNCH' and he scream very loudly," said a visibly shaken Hamza to reporters only hours after the attack. The autopsy and Hamza's eyewitness account indicate that Dr. Gomez was dead before he hit the floor. Purportedly, as he fell, the boner-possum did a triple back-flip and used it's boner to tear the professor's head off while he was still screaming and falling.

Ernesto Buendia and Hernando Fuente, Dr. Gomez's research assistants sought refuge atop a refrigerator but were both killed by flying debris as the boner-possum reduced the lab to rubble and splinters. Stephen Hawking's computer simulations of the tragic event show that the penis weasel's boner penetrated the fabric of space-time and made wild weasel-love to a worm-hole before thrashing its way through a cinder-block wall, severing a gas main, and totalling a commuter bus in the streets below. Miraculously, Hamza suffered only minor burns and inexplicable anal tenderness when the gas main ignited, obliterating the building and flinging him nearly 800 metres before he crashed through a skylight and landed - unconscious - in a hot-tub at a gay spa.

The body-count reached 439 this morning after the deranged weasel leveled a catholic primary school in downtown Bogota. Concerned and outraged citizens took to the streets, demanding that the government take action. Meanwhile, zoologists and specialists are being flown in from every corner of the globe to offer their services. President Bush has expressed his deepest condolences and has vowed to send Chuck Norris and a team of Navy SEALs to hunt down and kill the vicious weasel. In a related story, Al Gore has volunteered to fly to Bogota where he will promote his new book: Boner-Possums and Global Warming ~My Struggle With Erectile Disfunction~.

Amidst the resounding public outcry, several voices rise above the rest to ask the important question: Are there circumstances under which the deliberately induced extinction of a species becomes both ethical and warranted? The author would argue: "Yes, indeed." When you lock a pounding boner-possum in a steel box and electrocute it, you are effectively staring natural selection in the face. Having said that, it should be apparent who the endangered species is.

The Smoking Benjo Snipe

The Ornithosis Pyrosphinctus - also known as the "smoking benjo snipe," the "smoking rocket bird," or the "ugly f%&ker" - is a large, awkward, bug-eyed bird indigenous to the Cocos Islands in the Indian Ocean. It's tiny legs, grotesquely rotund body, and sparse rust-colored plumage make it one of nature's less glamorous creatures. It feeds primarily on algae that grow on the rocks that surround coastal tidal pools. A small organ that is attached to the bird's pancreas produces a rare digestive enzyme called gigazene quasimerase that is unique to the species. As the algae travel through the bird's gastrointestinal tract, it interacts with this enzyme to produce a foul smelling and highly volatile smoke that perpetually seeps from the bird's anus and lingers in its plumage. The smoke is beneficial in that it repels both parasites and predators but it does little to protect the bird from its most serious threat - natural selection.


Furthermore, as a result of its smokiness, the bird has found its way into the lore of native Islanders who believe the smoke to be the manifestation of the bird's psyche. It is said that these birds can transform themselves entirely into clouds of putrid smoke and can thus be inhaled into the lungs of sleeping victims.

Perhaps the most intriguing and remarkable thing about the smoking benjo snipe is its bizarre mating ritual. Every year in early November, the males gather on the cliff-tops that overlook the sea. They hop about excitedly on one foot or the other as they peck at each others' genitals and puff enormous volumes of smokey gas out of their puckered birdy butt-holes. Then, one by one, they dash wildly toward the cliff's edge. As they run, they crush the flint pebbles that are scattered about. The sparks that fly from the crushed flint ignite the bird's smokey flatus and a jet of shrieking flame spews from the bird's anus, propelling it off of the cliff and into the air. This is the only time at which the Ornithosis Pyrosphinctus is capable of flight. They are known to reach speeds in excess of Mach two (1,522 miles per hour.) This, of course, has earned the bird the title of "fastest creature on Earth" (the Peregrine Falcon comes in a distant second at speeds just over 200 miles per hour.) Only one in three male smoking benjo snipes survive this ritual. For two out of three explode violently mid-flight. Consequently, the bird's meat is something of a culinary delicacy as it requires no preparation and literally falls from the sky.

"Eeesh"

The pitter-patter sound of the maggots falling out of the wound and onto the table sounded like the onset of a summer shower. The amused field-surgeon hovered over the man, his eyebrows arched upward, his held tilted back so that he stared down over the tip of his nose at the man's writhing wound. The scalpel didn't seem to be the appropriate tool for the task and the young surgeon was at a loss. Removing maggots from an open wound had not been treated in the curriculum. Without taking his eyes off of the wound, the surgeon placed the scalpel on the tray, reached around, and grabbed a plastic spoon. The man winced as the surgeon plunged the spoon into the wound. It was like serving macaroni and cheese: the thick squishy noise, the way the gelatinous mass of maggots jiggled on the spoon. "Eeesh," said the surgeon.

A Beer And A Sea Breeze

There's something about sailing in light wind that pisses me off. This day was no exception. The spinnaker sail was bulimic. It would fill partially before spitting the air back out. Our magic wind-compasses wagged their vanes lethargically. And the sun pressed down firmly upon our backs, causing our shirts to stick to the skin. All I wanted was to get home, to get food in my stomach. Every glance at my GPS receiver was a grim reminder that home was a long long way away. Our velocity made good was negative for we'd to round the promontory in the bay in order to reach Fairhope.

The mainsail would not stay full so I was perched on the gunnel, in the shade of the main, holding the boom in an effort to keep it from swinging athwart ship under its own weight. The shade was pleasant but I was far too famished to enjoy it. We had ordered our breakfast two days prior. Nancy had been responsible for bringing our breakfast down to the island when she came to meet us, but somehow the bag containing my breakfast never made it. An unconvincing "sorry" had only served to temper my ill humor. The skipper and his first mate had breakfasted blissfully while the rest of us looked on glumly. All except for asshopper who begged his way into an apple pastry.

Thus as I squatted on the gunnel watching the pelicans (or pelicunts as we often joked) dive into the bay, I was not only in a foul mood, but I was nearly delirious with hunger. I had lost interest in the bottle of stale drinking water that was tucked away in my life jacket and thus I was beginning to battle dehydration as well. My arms ached from holding the boom. I was young and spry and the strenuous tasks were always assigned to me. And theretofore, I'd always welcomed such tasks.

I sighed and allowed my head to fall forward. An incoherent string of mumbled expletives tumbled from my mouth as I glanced down through the porthole next to me. I could see asshopper asleep in the cabin, his leg propped atop the beer cooler. Asshopper. He had a real name like Bill or Jim or something but no one cared. To us he was just asshopper. My God! Had he not the decency to suffer along with the rest of us? He had even had the luxury of an apple pastry and there he was sleeping soundly below deck whilst the lactic acid was turning my aching forearms into mush. But propping his leg on top of the beer cooler was by far the most outrageously inconsiderate act that I could think of. I stared murderously at his leg in hopes of splintering his kneecap with my mind-bullets.

Beer! My God! "I must have it and now!" I said under my breath. Asshopper's kneecap was impervious to mind-bullets and I stirred from my haunches and looked around as if I were rousing troops for an assault. I ducked my head under the boom so that I could see the helm. Big Dave was smoking a cigar that was as big as a salami. "Butch," I growled hoarsely, "rouse asshopper and tell him to fetch me a Hoegarrden from the cooler." Butch nodded and yelled to asshopper through the hatch. Beer: It kept Belgian monks alive during lent. In fact, the most famous of all Belgian beers, Chimay, is actually brewed in a monastery. I had no Chimay, but Hoegarrden was a fine substitute. It was a Belgian white beer with a fine smooth flavor, heavy on the malt and light on the hopps. Just the way I liked it. I had three bottles of Hoegarrden in that cooler and all had been submerged in ice-water for the last twenty-four hours. They were chilled to thirty-two degrees exactly.

I could hear asshopper stirring below and I looked through the porthole and saw him up to his elbow in ice-water, rooting around for my Hoegarrden. I smirked. I watched as the ice-cold bottle of beer was passed up to me. The glass was frosty with condensation. The soothing sound of the hiss as the cap was pried loose. I looked down at the little vapor cloud that lingered in the neck of the bottle. I lifted the freezing cold beer to my parched lips and tilted my head back so that the world began to spin. My eyes closed to the image of the sail rising into the deep blue sky. Tears formed as gulp after icy gulp of beer surged into me. The little bubbles tickled my throat. Chill bumps formed on my skin as my body temperature plunged.

As I sat in the shade of the mainsail, gulping down the fresh Hoegarrden, a brisk sea breeze came at us from the south and I heard the reassuring crackle of the spinnaker filling with air. The breeze carried the sweat from my skin and chilled the painful sunburn. I felt the boat accelerating and shortly thereafter, I began to hear the sound of the prow slicing through the emerald-green water of the bay. I motioned for a second bottle of beer and consumed it just as hastily as the first. I was drunk and I knew it. And with the sea breeze dancing in my hair, I could not imagine a more blissful state.