Saturday, August 25, 2012

Nyan Hippo Blog

Back again. I know, I know. It’s been about a week and a half since I last posted some of my amazing and poorly edited prose and all of you, my dozen loyal readers all across the globe: The U.S., Russia, Romania, Great Britain, Vietnam, Canada…wait. Vietnam? While I appreciate anybody and everybody who would take the time to actually read the stuff that falls out of my brain and on to the keyboard, I even appreciate Nebraskans, I wonder why Vietnam? Not that I have anything against any nation or any people that inhabit these nations, it’s just strange to see Vietnam pop up on the views list. The first thing that comes to mind when I see this, is that someone is trying to steal all of this valuable information that I put on here. Then I think, well maybe I’ve truly reached across nations and cultures, and that the web really does have the capability to bridge gaps and bring us all together as one world, as human beings, instead of violent defenders of cultural and religious identity. Then I realized that the internet has, in the not too distant past, been used to Rickroll one another and to proliferate Nyan cat. Maybe that’s what my blog has become: the new Rickroll or Nyan cat. Damn it—anything but Nyan cat. [BTP] All of you have been wondering, waiting, salivating over what comes next. nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nya-nya-n-nya-n-nya-nyan. NO! Get out of my head Nyan cat and go back to 2011! nyan [BTP!] If you’re wondering why my [back to point] has an exclamation point within the brackets that would be because I just wasted twenty minutes of precious life watching that accursed flying Pop-Tart cat.

Honestly though, the whole Nyan cat is a step up from what I usually have to endure. You see, I have a 15 year-old step-daughter. And the thing with 15 year-old girls is that they absolutely love the most horrific music. Case in point: “Somebody I used to know,” by Gotye. Not more than a week ago I, again, found myself in the unenviable position of being trapped in a moving vehicle with music which, I am almost sure, was forged in Hell’s bowels. Notice I didn’t say, the bowels of hell as one would expect. This was not a grammatical oversight. I believe that by ascribing Hell’s bowels to the place of origin from whence this song sprang is the only way that one can get a full understanding of the fecal-ness of the noise which was permeating my ears, my mind, and my very being.

To be fair I didn’t hate this song the first time I heard it; nor the second, or the third. It really is a good song. But the thing about 15 year-old girls is that they haven’t developed the element of self-control and are a slave to their impulses. So after hearing the song approximately 8,439,228,991.16 times over the course of two weeks, I hate it. Not a mild loathing or an extreme dislike, but hate—deep, dark, black, soot-covered flaming hatred. I’m beginning to wonder if the 15 year-old is using tactics on me similar to the tactics used when the U.S. invaded Nicaragua or Panama, or whatever country it was, back in 1989. When Noriega holed himself up in an embassy and the U.S. military used psychological warfare and blasted bad ‘80s metal at the disposed ruler on loudspeakers for days on end which finally pushed him to madness and he ran screaming from his redoubt and, after setting fire to his own genitals, drowned himself in the Panama canal? (That was a historical fact I just stated. Don’t believe me? Read it again. It’s on the internet, so it must be true). This may be the situation I’m facing here. But I refuse to yield. There aren’t any major bodies of water near my neighborhood in Devil’s Tookus and I don’t have the nerve to cook my junk. [BTP]. Nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan—No! Wrong point!

[BTP again] My wife and I were driving the 15 year-old female vessel of impulsiveness and materialistic pining to a mid-week church thing. All the while I was planning a desperate flight away from the maniacal repetition of that God-damned song, when, lo and behold, we arrived at the church. Praise the Lord, though I just used his name in vain, I was forgiven, relief found me and the music ceased. I told my, recently minted, step-daughter to have fun learning about Jehovah with an I. Nobody got my Indiana Jones reference so I slunk back in the seat and enjoyed the consolation of relative quiet.

As we exited the church parking lot my eye caught sight of something so terrible and so heinous that I could barely contain my rage. There, in the playground of the church day care, were climbing apparatuses shaped in the form of a Hippopotamus and a Crocodile. What the flip, my mind screamed. Okay, it wasn’t flip I thought, but I do, on occasion, censor myself. It wasn’t the Crocodile that offended me, it was the Hippo. Kids know instinctively that Crocs are dangerous and violent creatures, that’s why they have shoes named after them. But Hippos? Hippos appear to be harmless; big toothy smiles inviting young children to play in their gaping mouths. But these animals are one of the most dangerous creatures on the face of the Earth. What the hell were these church administers thinking? The irresponsibility was mind-blowing. These kids are going to grow up thinking Hippos are safe and cuddly pets. Then they will travel to Africa, go out on pontoon boat (I don’t know why I chose pontoon boat, I guess it’s because I rarely get to use the word ‘pontoon’), and get bitten in half by the massive jaws of a Hippo. Hippos will bite you half. They do it all of the time. Don’t believe me? Google Hippos biting people in half and I’ll bet you’ll find at least a hundred stories on Hippo bitings. I then had a greater realization: Noah’s Ark. There are stories of this guy building a big-ass boat and stocking it full of Hippos. According to the story the Hippos were passive as they entered the Ark. Bull. (This reminds me, male and female Hippos are called bulls and cows, which further lends itself to false notion that they are safe. What could be safer than mankind’s primary food source?) I knew at once that the story was designed to lure children into the false security that Hippos are safe and gentle and that I had stumbled upon a greater conspiracy.

Hippos in the playground? Hippos in the Holy writings? I believe this to be some sort of twisted plot to cull the human population. The authors of the Bible knew the human population was getting out of hand and therefore decided to remedy the situation by making people believe that Hippos were, and are, safe. They already had people putting their faith in the text anyway, so why not add in a little population control? What they didn’t know was that Hippos didn’t exist anywhere else in the world other than Africa and that the Hippo-less Asians would be such prolific breeders. I guess the Supreme Being forgot to mention that to them. For those who are offended by the Asian remark—what? They’re not? There are two Asian nations that have a population of over a Billion people and there isn’t a Hippo in either. I only state facts here.
I feel it is incumbent upon me to warn the people of this great planet of the danger Hippos are to the human race. Don’t let yourself fall complacent in your vigilance against the Hippo menace. I will use this forum to be ever watchful. Maybe we really can use the internet as a force for good? Nyan nyan nyan nyan nya nya nyan. ...Shit. Maybe not.

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