So I’ve been taking some time off from real work and fake work to spend time with my girlfriend, who’s about to be shipped off to Japan for a year. I’ve decided that not updating this blog for three weeks would be a bad idea, so I’ve come up with a little something to fill the space until she leaves and I’m plunged into a despair which will ensure me the time I need to spend writing.
On Sunday we took a trip to my friend Lora’s farm, which is home to a wondrous assortment of seemingly normal animals with a bizarre twist. Not pictured here is:
Buddy the dog – a sweet heart of a husky mix that’s positively afraid of and chased by every other animal on the farm, including the cats.
Sweeny the cat – the fattest cat I’ve ever seen in my life, who dwarfs every other cat on the farm, even the fat ones.
The miniature horses, who are miniature, and feature bimbo-esque blonde manes that flop over one eye.
Clarice the sheep – a black sheep (literally and figuratively) who was rejected by her sheep mother and raised by the goats. In a textbook case of nature vs. nurture, Clarice is smart like a goat, rather then being a retarded bleating beast like her brothers and sisters.
Two gay roosters. So cute, so in love.
On with the pictures, starting with George the cat, who demands belly rubs at all costs, and will follow any visitors around the farm crying, especially when he hears his name. Pictured here hissing at Buddy the dog, who he later chased out of the horse pen.
And here, licking his own nose.
Here’s Mr. Blue the peacock, trying his best to impress one of his lovely ladies (the other was tending to a flock of tiny baby Mr. Blues). She was not impressed at all.
Later, Mr. Blue’s sons, who don’t have names apparently, came over to see how it was done.
Here are some female goats.
And here’s the farms stud, Moses, bedding down. That’s right, he’s a male, and that thing there isn’t a set of udders. It later turned out that his bedding down was a ruse, and he was merely waiting for us to leave so he could break back out of his pen and eat things he wasn’t supposed to.
The farm features two kinds of ducks. The first are the Muscovys, which feature disgusting red growths on their faces, and cannot quack. Rather than quacking, these gross bastards ‘hiss’, a sound similar to that of a dirty old man thinking about little girls in short skirts. Their babys, however, are adorable.
The other kind of duck is called an Indian Runner Duck, and they are my favorite thing on the entire farm. These look like regular ducks, and quack like regular ducks, but they stand upright, like little men in duck suits, and run full bore everywhere they go. If you look closely at the picture you’ll notice that one of the babies doesn’t match. It seems that the family picked up a stray Muscovy, who manages to keep up with its adoptive family despite its erectile shortcomings.
Every time I feel like the world is too much to handle I’m just going to remember this little guy, and how hard he keeps trying. Little Muscovy Runner never gives up.
God I hope a hawk doesn’t eat him.