It's an interesting life.

So… in nature, different types of animals have different types of markings to fend off predators and to ensure that they remain safe. It’s an internal thing; an evolutionary adaptation to predator-and-prey relations. In this camouflage, animals know with whom they may mate, and with whom they may not.

Take the poison dart frog for example:



Sure, he's got the look of a friendly frog from the waist up, but once you hit those turd legs - you know trouble's a brewin'.

Now, among humans, mother nature has gotten a bit lazy. There are no distinguishable markings upon first glance that say “don’t touch me;” no neon stripes or poison secretions. Of course, this is with the exception of the Elephant Man and those circus freaks with their wandering appendages and full-female beards. Clearly no one’s fucking them.

But … for the rest of the throngs who spin the wheel of chance any time they take someone home from a bar, crossing their fingers that in pulling down their pants they will neither be exposed to a nostril-flaring extravaganza, nor a cauliflower-esque genital area, it’s a real crapshoot.

There are, however, a group of people who are hit exceedingly hard. Shunned by society and relegated to the seedy underbelly of society, these people are, to put it bluntly, the animal-fuckers.

I can’t even explain the sheer terror that they must feel every time they take a trip to Africa, comparing photos of Tom Hanks in Philadelphia to each monkey until they feel comfortable enough to find one they’d like to rape. It’s a real tragedy.

I mean, it’s mother nature’s fault, but it’s ours as a society too.

Seriously… we can invest millions of dollars a year into developing a newer, hipper one-dollar bill, yet we can’t invest a few bucks into ensure a disease-free monkey rape adventure?

Priorities, people. Priorities.