Planet Earth 2008: Living With the Chimpanzees

(Guns N’ Roses, “Welcome to the Jungle”, 1987)

Y’know, sometimes I get tired of living in America. It isn’t the recession; living as a wolf-person for so many years, I know that of all the horrible things that can happen from starvation to cancer to AIDS, not being able to buy a brand new super duper deluxe sized McMansion with fifty bedrooms and six Ferarris ranks low on the list. No, my real problem with America is that it’s filled with chimps. Monkeys. Baboons. Orangutans. Various types of obnoxious monkeys just waiting to get on a plane in Alaska so they can kill all the caribou and wolves in sight.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing necessarily bad about being a hominid, except that it makes you a monkey. A shit throwing monkey. A monkey that likes to eat feces and throw it at other monkeys. That’s what you are, a crap-throwing, half-done obnoxious stupid chimpanzee.

That likes to throw things at other chimpanzees.

You chimps get on my nerves, that’s all I’m saying. You have to kill all the other species that you decide you don’t like. And as replacement for all the tigers and wolves and leopards and elephants that you murder and slaughter, you give us more of yourselves.

America: Land of the free, home of the chimps.

Or: Planet Earth: Land of the carbon-based lifeforms, home of the shit-throwing monkeys.

Oh, but you love cows! You love their fat ugly stupid asses. Probably because they remind you of yourselves, you fat stupid ignorant racist cows. You make millions of them. You worship them in India, and nearly do so in America. You feed them all the grains and grasses they could ever want so you can shoot them in the head and put their corpses on an assembly line. Then, you use chainsaws and big knives to rip all their skin off, and then you rip off their meat–but only the meat you want–and then you grind up the stuff you don’t want and you feed it back to the cows, because vegetarian animals can just suck it up and eat meat like your fat lazy ass. Do you have a boner yet? Eat it up! Because you will never be good for anything. The various chemicals they’ll put in your bodies after you die mean even maggots will choke on your toxic, worthless corpse.

You are a component in a machine composed of over 300,000,000 chimpanzees created so 5,000 chimpanzees can fly around an insignificant rock in an insignificant solar system and feel more important than they really are. That’s your importance in the grand scheme of things.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate you, I just get sick of seeing nothing but chimpanzees. Chimps at the grocery store. Chimps at school, chimps at home, chimps on TV. Chimps in hot-air balloons. Chimps screaming about emotions and fathers and shooting up post offices and schools. Chimps drawing pictures of chimps with fangs and claws and wings and fifty penises. Chimps wearing clothing. Basically, when I look at Earth I see a rock inhabited by mentally-deranged chimps.

But I’m not upset! I love you, you crazy half-deranged chimpanzee people! You’re totally cool, and I like having my own car, toilet, Lego city, etcetera, which would not be possible without your opposable thumbs and insatiable need to defecate. All I ask is that you stop putting yourselves above other animals and realize you are one. You say you’re better than a wolf, but are you really? Let’s look at the facts:

The Facts:

Wolves eat their young, like the sensible creatures they are. Humans don’t. Advantage: Wolf

Wolves don’t circumcise their females. Advantage: Wolf

Wolves don’t make nuclear weapons so they can kill themselves and all other life on Earth. Advantage: Wolf

Wolves don’t feel insecure about having a small penis. Advantage: Wolf

And so on. I could go on, but I realize then you’d kill yourself in disgust of your species, because you are a deranged chimpanzee.

So, anyway, chimpanzee-people, I have this to say: You really need to get off your high horses. Also diversify. Of the people I know, the ones who are most interesting are also the ones that are least interested in having children. Like, one’s a lesbian, and the other wants to get her tubes tied. This isn’t fair. I don’t want to live on Planet of the Boring Apes. I want to live with unique people who have an interest in music made before 2003 and who don’t go to Myspace to find their Internet. I want to live with gray people, also possibly beige or mahoghany. Wolf-people would be nice too. Of course, they’d probably eat all their young, so it would be a short-lived species, but who cares?

I want to have a girlfriend who looks vaguely like a chipmunk. Buck teeth, red hair, slight belly. This is a very rare combination, to my knowledge. You should make more of them. Also more squirrel-girls.

And of course it shouldn’t have to be mentioned that we need more kangaroos. I don’t care how you do it, make more of them. They’re awesome.

You should also let wolves eat more of your children, specifically the slow and the weak. Oh, I know, it’s not a nice thing to say, but it’s the truth.

Finally, I would like to ask that you humans make a werewolf costume that looks like a wolf. I go to the Halloween shops, and all I see are monster-looking wolf masks. Wolves are beautiful, far more beautiful than you could ever be. I know you’re just jealous of their awesomeness, but seriously, you’ve got to stop the cycle of hate. Realize you’re a lesser animal than a wolf, get over yourself, and we can all be a lot better off. Even if Kim Jong Il is still here.

If you’re still reading, thanks, and I hope I imparted you with some knowledge. Now, I must go off to fetch some candy.

Using Homeless People To Make Chinese Food and the Domain of the Dreaded Sushi Chef

(“My Will”, pretty much the only reason I used to watch Inuyasha. I found it the most appropriate song I could think of for this article. Thanks goes to Tenchikins on Youtube)

Eating Chinese food is a lot like eating sushi, in that both involve copious amounts of rice. The principal difference between the two culinary classes is that while one involves undercooked fish that can give you tapeworms and could contain greasy disgusting hair from some chef’s head, the other involves MSG and will contain greasy disgusting hair from some chef’s head. This is an important distinction, as I would learn venturing into the depths of delicacy, the chasms of the culinary, and the bosom of tasty brilliance.

Just trust me, I’m serious here.

So anyway, what I’m saying is, I bought Chinese food from a local Albuquerque Chinese food restaurant, and it had a hair in it, which I can state with certainty I did not eat. I will not state its name, except to say that it is named after the fact that all of its employees are prostitutes that are hand-picked from Albuquerque’s own Land of Prostitutes, Central Avenue and the South Valley. If you have ever lived here or driven by on the Interstate, you know what I’m talking about. You literally have to scrape them off your car after driving by these places, in much the same way you have to scrape mating grasshoppers off your car’s windshield in Texas.

This restaurant is good eatin’. Via a special recipe composed of large amounts of (you guessed it) rice and homeless people it gets off the street, the Restaurant That Must Not Be Named has set Albuquerque’s gold standards for cheap Chinese food. Also sexy Asian girls. For example, the girl that they have spooning the food is hawt. And here people are always questioning my love of the ladies! Nope, I can definitely tell when I see a hawt chick. No questions at all. Nope.

Now, the sushi place at our local supermarket is different. They don’t use homeless people for their fish; everybody would notice right away if there were dead human in sushi. That’s because sushi is the greatest substance on Earth, besides wolves, of course, whereas humans are the slimiest, most disgusting things on our planet. Plus, if you tried to put humans in sushi, there would be blood, and all the soy sauce in the world couldn’t hide that.

The sushi place is run by the creepiest man in existence right now. Even creepier than this guy. Creepier even than Tom Cruise in his Scientology suit, which is a Xenu costume. Creepier than


Or any other thing I have ever put on this website. I have always assumed that this is just the way Japan is, judging by the tremendous amounts of Japanese cartoon pornography I have found on the Internet, but numerous people have told me that that viewpoint may be racist, and so I had better be wrong, or else I’m committing a crime here.

Yesterday I bought sushi from this man. Every time I come in to buy sushi from him, he gets out from behind his counter and starts talking to me about sushi. For example, once he told me how great one type of sushi was, and it was the most expensive kind he had. He recommended that I buy it. I told him I couldn’t afford it. He then pointed out the cheapest type he had. He recommended that I buy it. I bought the typical midgrade type, the California roll. The Toyota Camry of sushi.

Yesterday, however, he was in a special mood, which sushi chefs get into when they realize a single supermarket customer–in this case, me–happens to be the only man that could possibly pay the tuition for all of his kids through college. I was the only guy, in the entire friggin’ store, that was buying this poor guy’s sushi. He had a big ol’ case full of the stuff, and nobody was buying. So apparently, this guy got it in his mind that he would reward me and my grandma for being his faithful customers.

I had dashed off with a spicy plate of sushi, hoping not to attract his attention, for fear that he would glomp me. But as I left, crouching under the apple cart to attempt to evade him, I looked back, and there he was, waving at me. Truly, truly terrifying.

“Creepy weirdo,” I mumbled under my breath.

“You can’t worry about it, there’s nothing we can do now,” my grandmother advised me.

Resigned as we were to the fact that the Japanese Sushi Chef from Hell would continue to wave at us and be nice to us as long as I continued to buy his fishy goodness, we were still not prepared for when he would attack us again, this time with the dreaded Japanese Sushi Chef Price Markdown move, a regular in sumo wrestling, or so I’ve been told. He apparently went up to my grandmother, and told her that I liked his sushi so much that he was going to give me a price discount, just for being a regular customer. He cut the price down two dollars. He’s just that kind of a guy.

So if you’re ever in the Rio Rancho, New Mexico area and suddenly feel a need for raw pickled fish wrapped in seaweed and covered in rice and avocado, go to the supermarket with sushi, the domain of the Japanese Sushi Chef. Do it for his kids. Do it so they can go to college.

Do it because he’s a nice guy. I’m assuming here he’s not just gay.

LBN Newsnet’s coverage of Balloon Fiesta 2008

It’s the year 2008, and you know what that means: If there’s an event, especially an annual event, there’s probably the number “2008” behind the name, so you know beyond a reasonable doubt what year it is.

The Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta is no different. Like any reputable event, it is not just any old Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta, it is Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta 2008, and it is proud of it, by gum, as proud as married cousins in Arkansas.

And why shouldn’t the Balloon Fiesta be proud? I mean, in these times, when people are coming close to suicidal tendencies from watching CNBC twenty-four hours a day, when America is inching closer and closer to imploding into a ball of uncontrollable economic destruction and doom, when even Libertarians are beginning to seriously consider the economic possibilities of Marxist Communism, these Balloon Fiesta people still, after all these years, wake up at four in the morning to inflate their $90,000 bags of hot gas. I mean, it takes a very special person to have that much obsession with balloons. And so I say the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta 2008 should be very, very proud of itself.

My mother and I left for the Balloon Fiesta this morning, as we leave every year, that is by car. We have learned by experience not to use any form of public transportation, regardless of who it is being used by or where it is going. Last year, we took the AIBF bus system, which used school buses to transport people to the Balloon Fiesta, and used tour buses to transport people from the Balloon Fiesta. Although we survived the trip, this was only due to our pluck and persistence of being. Many others died of various diseases, such as boredom, and, I’m guessing, AIDS.

Our little orange gas-guzzling SUV plodded its way to the parking lots of the Balloon Fiesta, ready to encounter whatever half-asleep drivers would dare to try plowing into our bumpers. We were ready for Balloon Fiesta Road Warrior, as we would engage in armed combat for the last parking spaces available.

The event we attended was the Special Shapes Rodeo. Those of you normal people who go to the Balloon Fiesta should know by now that this is the only event worth going to. The Special Shapes Rodeo has very special hot-air bags, which are not just giant upside down teardrops, but rather things like giant cute bears, giant cute cows, giant cute space shuttles, and giant cute anthropomorphic peanut advertisements. Frankly, this is the high point of the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta.

The other thing you find at the Balloon Fiesta, at least in Albuquerque, is lots of balloon advertisements, not to mention Honda vehicles, because Honda makes the power generators for the whole shebang. The Balloon Fiesta is always filled with people, except for in the Honda booth, as Honda always has its Honda Ridgeline on display, which is a pickup truck that has had its attractiveness and useability surgically removed. I moved on to Cameron Balloons, as I wished to find how I could create my own special-shape balloon. It would look like this:

I am very creative, as you can see.

I plan for my balloon to be the first balloon where you can look underneath the shape’s clothing to see what other kinds of shapes are there. The rule of thumb for me is, if it doesn’t get banned from every city on planet Earth, it is not perverted enough. Then I will fly it to Pittsburgh, or directly over Jack Hannah’s house. I hope for an interesting response.

The thing about my plan is, hot air balloons cost money. Looking through a Cameron balloon catalogue, I saw numbers such as “35,935” and “90,746”. I asked the balloon salesman how much a special shape would cost.

“A lot more,” he said.

So, although I would love to, I will have to postpone my plans to fly a naked special shape wolf balloon over peoples’ houses. But, rest assured, when I do, you will know. And I assume you will prepare your shotguns.

But of course, a Balloon Fiesta is not complete without actually looking at the balloons. Before one does this, they must buy and consume at least one breakfast burrito and one hot cocoa. This is a law, and it shall be enforced by death. If you do not buy and consume a breakfast burrito, with potatoes, bacon, and green chile as primary ingredients, you will be regarded as a Texan, and Texans are disgusting subhuman creatures, even lower than people who buy naked special shape hot air balloons. Not even a funnel cake can take the place of a breakfast burrito. Unless you buy it with strawberry sauce and cream. And even then you must still consume the cocoa.

Then you have to look at the balloons. These balloons are huge, and they will be handled by dozens of people you’ve never heard of, pulling at strings and flipping levers and starting massive plumes of fire and essentially working like the crew on some kind of bizarre flying pirate ship.

The balloons take up the entire width of the sky. If you look to the north, you see balloons flying away. If you look to the south, you see balloons flying towards you. If you look to the east or west, you see balloons flying by. If you look overhead, chances are you’ll see a balloon fly overhead, hopefully with the pilot not dropping sand bags at the time.

My mother and I left for home after three hours of looking at balloons flying by, inflating, and lying on the ground, and we were ready to sleep. As we left, we heard of a fatality. Sadly, as seems to happen every year, a balloon hit an electrical line. One would think the pilots would learn not to hit electrical lines with their balloons, but they just keep on doing it, like lemmings. I think the FAA needs to retrain all its balloon pilots. Apparently, while enrolled in Hot Air Balloon Pilots’ School, they all got sick on “Don’t land in electrical lines” day.

Anyway, that’s it for Balloon Fiesta 2008. I could go on and on, but I will have to save more for Balloon Fiesta 2009. Assuming of course, they can afford to have “2009” behind the name. Otherwise, we couldn’t figure out what the year was. And that would be a shame.