From the Winnipeg Times

In the wake of a recent exodus of American liberals causing chaos at various Canadian entry points, authorities have taken the bull by the balls horns and hastily erected temporary refugee camps in order to contain the crisis while looking for long-term solutions. As of yesterday, most border crossings were still completely overwhelmed and extra Canada Customs Officers were being dispatched from the Yukon and the Arctic to reinforce our southern border. They will begin service as soon as they have thawed.

The camps have sparked much debate around them. « It’s extremely taxing on the local economy, » said John Zhou, a British Columbia resident. « We are small communities that normally only provide for ourselves. But then again we can’t let the poor boogers be sent back to face the Ku Klux Klan. » The Canadian government has been asking border area populations to be supportive but firm. « If you see liberals crossing your broccoli field, » the Prime Minister declared in a CBC interview Monday, « there is reason enough to believe they’re after your food and you are allowed to shoot them. On the other hand, let’s show some good old Canadian mercy and offer them free passage across our lands if they agree to go blindfolded. » Some farmers are infuriated by the leader’s stance. « The man is just weak, he wants to please everybody, » one said angrily. « He would like those liberals unharmed in case they can be exchanged within the scope of our so-called free-trade agreement. But the PM is obviously unaware of the damage a blind liberal can do to a crop. »

Local municipalities are taking these matters very seriously and advising residents to avoid broccoli fields after sunset. Passwords have been issued to all Canadian citizens for quick verbal identification after dark. They will be renewed weekly during a secret TV broadcast said to air right before Hockey Night. « We had to find a deeply rooted, all-Canadian value that only our population would recognize, » an official said about the password broadcast. « We wouldn’t want those liberals to tap in. But with Hockey Night, our secrecy is assured. I don’t think they even know how to play, let alone understand the TV guide. » Ironically, 2 hours after the first password was issued last week, it was cracked by a 12 year old liberal’s kid who posted it on his Facebook page with the comment « What’s a Gretzky? »

Within a few days of opening, all refugee camps were experiencing food shortages. « Each liberal eats like two of us, » said a cook. « We’re already out of free-range chicken, soy milk, flax seeds, wheat grass and most organic farm-grown veggies. » « They ask the strangest questions, » commented another man. « Like, this bloke wanted to know if we add hormones to our chickens after packaging them. How silly would that be, eh. »

But public support is rising and innovative solutions are being put forward. Near Toronto, refugee camps have begun serving Maple Leaf meat products to the liberals. « There’s no shortage of that meat, these days, » a volunteering mother laughed, « and as far as we know, it only kills Canadians. Besides, those liberals are illegal immigrants, they can’t be too picky. » In Vancouver, a firm is importing milk products from China at very low costs in order to supply the camps. « Milk is milk, » said the CEO of Radical Imports Inc., « and where it comes from should not matter to someone who is willing to leave a home country behind for mere political reasons. We do, however, recommend that liberals arriving with babies stick to breast feeding and boil their ideals for 3 minutes. »

With this flurry of activity at our borders, it’s easy to forget that real evil is driving the refugees out of their homes. Yet the Canadian Government announced last night that it will remain neutral not to offend either party. « We are acting a little like the Swiss here, » PM Harper said at the press conference. « Everybody is treated equally. An illegal border crossing can be quite messy, so we’ll clean them up and keep them organized and sedated. As a matter of fact, cuckoo clocks have been installed at major border crossings to help speed up the process. But if the conservatives come charging after the fugitives, we’ll treat them just as humanly and fairly. After all, they are in charge. »

The editor in chief of controversial activist newspaper The Sunday Pun, Langelot Laframboise, wrote in Friday’s editorial: « In these troubled times, every Canadian is aware of the menacing evil empire lurking south of us. A vicious Sith Lord has been in control there far too long and the new threat of another one rising to power is a sickening thought. Liberals are driven away from their hometowns like rats out of a sinking ship. It’s time for a Jedi Knight to reign, one who will provide rafts to the rats. For now, I can only approve of the poor bastards’ escape. » It might not be politically correct but it nails the issue on the head. For most Canadians, living on the Outer Rims normally means an occasional exposure to American drama. This time, however, the drama has crossed our borders along with the fleeing liberals. If nobody controls the situation south of us, we can kiss our broccoli good bye.

Yesterday at work, I walked out of the office and bumped into a thin man who looked rather lost. He was wearing a business suit, carried a leather case and hesitated in front of our door. Honestly, it’s hard to get lost on this floor because there are only three offices. He was probably from a farm country. I offered my most helpful smile but didn’t say a word. We’re also a little suspicious of strangers, on the 20th.

He turned to the unmarked door across from ours and muttered, half to me, half to himself: « This must be primates. » I smiled some more. That’s a clever one, I thought, never heard that before for the men’s bathrooms. Great sense of humour. He pushed on the door handle but it didn’t open. Our bathrooms are a high security area, you need a magnetic card to get in, and I guess all access is recorded downstairs at the Security desk, so that they know when and where... Never mind.

He started knocking on the bathroom door. One of my eyebrows arched, but I commanded it back down and stayed cool as ice. He was kind of dancing from one foot to the other and I figured he might have had an urgent need. « I’ll buzz you in », I offered, getting my card. The door beeped and he walked in, turned the corner and disappeared, the door closing behind him. I waited, unsure. I mean, our bathrooms are nice but you never know what people expect.

The door swung open again. He came out. On his face was an obvious conflict between an urge to laugh out loud and one of throwing a direct at my jaw. We stared at each other for a second or two, gauging the opponent’s resolution. I had a clear advantage, being on familiar ground and having just caught him knocking on the men’s door. Then he articulated a little slower. « I’m looking for Primus, it must be an unmarked door. »Oops, so that’s what he’d said.

« Ah, I replied, of course, I think it’s there at the end of the corridor. » I pointed to a door down the hallway, half hidden by transparent plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling and which a draft blew slightly open given the concourse an abandoned-spaceship-filled-with-aliens look. They’re renovating the 4th office on the right and the sheets are a vague attempt at containing dust and paint smells. But there is indeed an unmarked door at the end. They have servers and electronics in there but I rarely see them walk in or out and I don’t know the company details.

He walked over, eased his way past the loose obstacle, and knocked again, uneasy. No answer. He knocked once more, glancing back at me nervously; I think he must have suspected I was now directing him to the ladie’s. Come on, I encouraged silently, you can do it. I swear he jumped back at least a foot when the door finally opened. But someone he knew appeared and he entered looking around him as if watching for traps.

So I buzzed myself in, because I didn’t want to wet my pants.

My favourite blog recently talked about the Evil Corn Giant and corn-fed beef. It got me thinking about the Meatrix, which I hadn’t watched in a while. So I decided to post the link again, because the Meatrix is all around us. Of course, it’s much funnier if you are an unconditional fan of the first (and only) movie of the original trilogy.

I wasn’t always Bushytail Gonzales. My real name is Joe. I do my best to forget about that, it’s so lame. But once upon a time when I was a very frisky young raccoon, full of hormones and ideals, I ran into this tease of a raccooness. She was hot and classy and she drove the males around her crazy. The stripes on her tail were the sharpest I’ve ever seen and her bandida mask was subtle yet incredibly dramatic.

One day, after having eaten too many shells and feeling a touch euphoric, I began to chase her up a tree. Yeah, us racoon are not really known for our tree-climbing abilities but we are actually quite good at it. Back then, I did pride myself in being the fastest climber around. So I closed in on her easily for a few meters and thought I had it made. But that trunk was quite smooth and I began having trouble holding on, and then slowly fell behind. She reached the top and dashed across a branch into another tree while I was barely climbing past the half-way mark. I couldn’t believe it. When I got to the top, the foxy raccoon was nowhere to be seen and I was panting like a hamster on a wheel. So I granted myself a break and leaned against a large sturdy branch at the very top.

I hadn’t paid attention. It turns out the tree was a BC Hydro electricity pole and the branch was a transformer. The arc that flew right through me could have lighted an entire neighbourhood. There was a huge spark and I screamed as the current was flowing from my head to the tip of my tail in a flash of heat. Witnesses say I actually jumped off the pole and landed on my legs 30 feet below, smoking like a forest fire, but I have no recollection whatsoever. They all agree that I let out one long yelp while falling, something like « Ay-ay-ay-ay-ayyy-ay-ayyyyye! » When they got to me, my tail was four times its normal volume and the hair was standing up straight like that of a pissed off cat. To this day, it still does. My scream sounded Hispanic, so I was nicknamed Bushytail Gonzales. It stuck to me. I was hoping this would win me the favours of my foxy lady. She never looked back. Female raccoons are cruel.

But this many years later, I kinda like the name. It’s romantic and catchy. Quite a few females are attracted by it, and even though they are usually swans, ducks, squirels, frogs, turtles, chikadees or fleas, it’s flattering and I feel all fluffed up. Well, I’m permanently fluffed up, I meant my ego does. The female raccoons, surprisingly, have stayed far away. Go figure. So I’ve started singing, too. It’s the ultimate trick and they won’t resist me much longer.

As I have mentionned before and to my everlasting surprise, a while back on a moonless night, I heard the plaintive cry of a young Mexican girl raccoon:  « Laa-la-laaaaaaaaaa, la lalala la lala laaaaaaaa, la lalala la lala-laaaaaaaaa, laa laa laa laa laa lalalaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa... »

At first, I looked up in fear. I thought she was up on a pole and I was going to have to chase her up there. My tail sizzled a bit in memory of its past accident. I mean, these human-made fake trees are a nuisance, I’m sure you’ll agree with me. Not only do they pose a serious electrical threat to an honest raccoon’s reputation and courting efforts, they also seem to be dangerous for other inferior species. Take the squirrels, for instance. The poor bastards are frail and thin. If I got a bushy tail as a reward for my climb, big and strong as I am, they would just fry on the spot and there’s nothing worse than the smell of a burning squirrel.

Even the humans seem to have trouble with those pole trees. I saw one the other day, hanging from the top branch, looking pretty clueless as always. Others were trying to get to him with a strange little basket on a mechanical arm hoisted from a truck. I think I’ve figured out that « BC Hydro » means Bail the Clown with Hydrolics. I’m getting good at this. Of course, I’m talking about the lower species of humans, here. They live in concrete boxes like a bunch of chickens and seem to be about as smart as your average dog. Incidently, they are often seen walking one another around the park I live in, these dogs and humans.

Granted, a few humans are slightly more evolved and appear to understand the essence of living in the wild. They migrate away from the boxes and into the park, leaving everything behind but drinking supplies. They must be the dominant ones, alpha males and wisest among the wise. These haven’t shed their human habits completely, though, and still prefer to sleep on an uncomfortable bench rather than on a soft grassy field. Duh. At times, I see them lost in some deep train of thoughts as if trying to break free of their human condition. Other times they speak their teachings about life out loud for all to hear, even if no one’s around. I think they could be trained and domesticated.

Any way, the song seemed to be coming from a bush just around a bend in the path so I jumped through it with all my lust. Man, I almost inked myself right there. Where I had expected to find a sexy raccoon my size, I bumped into a tall human singing while he ran. Disgusting. I yelped, jumped back and ran into the bushes with my tail between my legs, which kinda hurts because it’s so bushy. Next time, I’ll smell the air first. Female raccoons never smell like sweat and Gillette.

These were taken far away, deep down, long ago and out of sight. But they still make me laugh, when needed.

Bon, ‘faut pas craquer, je m’applique. Having not yet achieved the results I was hoping for, which would be nothing short of « divine perfection », I am still regularly experimenting with le flan. Here’s the updated recipe. See also Flan pâtissier - 1er essai for the initial results and full length cooking drama.

The dough hasn’t changed much, but the quantities are now reflecting an overwhelming North American tendency to use the dreaded « cup » as a measuring unit, a nightmarish fact that has kept me on my toes doing intense maths. Here’s the formula for the dough:

• 1.4 cups flour (fun to play with)
• 125 g butter (my favourite)
• a pinch of salt (also called a sprinkle or a dusting of. By me.)
• a pinch of sugar (also called a tease or a sneeze of. By me too.)
• an egg yoke (not to be confused with my flight sim yoke)
• a bit of water (1024 bits of water being equal to a kibibit)
• 120 cl of hope (I’ve increased the dosage, success having been elusive)

« The making of » the dough is available at a reasonable cost, but you can also find it for free in the above mentionned post. I’m getting better at it. It no longer sticks desperately to the counter in a heroic effort to avoid the oven - and I have also perfected my technique when the times comes to lift it up, rolled flat, into the cooking pan. Now, this is very scientific, so pay attention... Since I don’t have a flat and thin mobile surface I could roll the dough on and then lift the whole apparatus and reverse into the pan, I use two clean sheets of paper taped to the counter. When the dough is flat and stretched, I undo the tape, put the pan on top and spin everything upside down. I cracked myself up so hard doing this that I almost dropped the whole thing!

Ok, dough in the buttered pan, pre-cooking is the same as before, I use my thickest spoons as weights to prevent the dough from rising like a balloon!

On to the flan itself. After experimenting with brown sugar, icing sugar and maple syrup, I am back to the basics: plain, normal white sugar. I’ve switched from corn starch to custard powder just because I was out of the former. It’s basically the same stuff, with a bit of salt, flavor and color added. So the flan formula looks like this:

• 1 liter whole milk (I never saw parts only of milk in a store, they must throw them away.)
• 0.8 cups sugar (notice, once again, the scientific precision; it’s not 3/4 cup, it’s 0.8. There.)
• 0.8 cups cornstarch (in this case Bird’s Custer Powder)
• 2 eggs + 2 yokes (the most fun part of the entire recipe being when I get to crack the shells...)
• 2 to 3 tsp pure vanilla extract

Pre-heat the oven to 1.21 jigowatts, or just 375°F. I used to get mixed results when mixing all this, at times ending up with a rather chunky cream but I’ve got it down to a drill. Bring the milk (minus one glass which is used to mix the cornstarch and eggs) and the sugar plus one tsp of vanilla to a boil. While this is happening, mix in a bowl the glass of milk, 2 more tsp of vanilla, the cornstarch and the eggs. I’d love to experiment with electricity but all I’ve got is a hand whip, so I go crazy for a few minutes until I feel like a few more visits to the gym are needed and the mix is unctuous.

When the milk is boily, I pour it into the bowl (and not the other way around) slowly, while whipping lightly to mix it well. Then the whole flan mix goes back into the pot and, over medium fire, is stirred into a thick cream. At times the bottom tends to send chunks up and I then use the whip to beat the crap out of those chunks, with the pan lifted momentarily off the stove. Eventually, the mix is so thick it uncovers the sides of the pot when stirred. That’s my signal. The original recipe said « let it boil for a few seconds », so I do, having no idea of what that does, but it’s fun because I can see the bubbles approaching the surface way before they burst. The things I’ll do to amuse myself.

The flan is poured into the pre-cooked crust and evened out, and stuck in the oven at 375°F. At precisely 35 minutes, I take it out and carefully brush a thin coat of apricot jam onto the surface, and put it back in. 5 minutes later, I switch the oven to broil for another 3 minutes. (This time, distracted by my post, I went to 6 minutes, and those 3 extra minutes made a huge difference; I wanted to avoid the brown patches that look like a skin desease.)

I let the flan cool off for a while, then put it in the fridge to get it to become a little firmer. Voila.

This was found here

Despite being dead tired I can’t sleep so I might as well write maybe my fingers will get sleepy and drag the rest of me to bed today I learned that medicine has a name for that annoying feeling people get in their legs sometimes which isn’t really painful but bugs the hell out of them and keeps them awake for hours counting sheep they call it RLS Restless Leg Syndrom I’m having RMS Restless Mind Syndrom man it sucks I tried banging it against a wall but it sounded empty and I was afraid to break right through it the wall not the head you know how they build modern apartments a couple of layers of sheetrock and you’re in the neighbour’s flat his head would be priceless if mine the head not the wall suddenly blasted into his space and stared at him in his underwear so any way I stopped and now I am using a softer approach because I am smart and I am afraid of my neighbour but tonight I cooked I had a great recipe given to me by my mentor along with detailed instructions which I followed closely but it didn’t go as planned first I had to find the kitchen and that’s difficult because my place is messy but I remembered that it’s like night diving and if you look behind you once in a while you will find your way back and I did and there was the kitchen I took all the ingredients out of the fridge but put them back so that I could remember where the leftovers would fit once I was very stressed by the cooking and then I got the board it’s like an ironing board but without the legs and harder and I started chopping up mushrooms and I remembered how I cut my finger last week it was while cutting mushrooms because there was dried blood left on the board and I was more careful this time that knife is sharp as a knife and then I stabbed my hand with a garlic head trying to crack it open like my mentor but it was pointy and now there’s more blood on the board but I’m not worried because garlic disinfects and I sliced it and also some parsley just because and I mixed the eggs too but not too much this was not an hamlet it was scrambled eggs so no frothing and by then the pan was hot so I started with the mushrooms and the garlic slowly with butter I love butter I wonder if there is a club and when the garlic was getting cooked I poured the egg mix and the greens and that’s when it all became tricky because the last time I had made an hamlet but involuntarily so I had to reduce the heat on the stove but then nothing was happening and major wobbling continued so I increased the heat and still nothing and then more heat and it started happening and then it happened too fast and the bottom stuck to the pan and the wobbling was gone and I had to rescue the meal and put it on two toasts because that’s the only bread I had and it was 2 weeks old but without green stuff growing on it so I ate it with my eggs on top but more like a broken hamlet that tasted good but looked like shit.

Part 1 - The Canadian Geese

« Hi. I’m papa-goose, the Canadian Goose. They call me papa-goose. Duh. This is my family, there, on the grass. Yes, it’s pretty good size. Now tell me true... er, hold on a second... »

Me: Honey, the kids are going too far off the path, I think you should bring them back, eh?

Mama-goose: Hey you fat goose, can’t you see I’m busy chasing off the silly human in high heels? Bring them back yourself!

« Whoa, she must be pissed. One of our distant cousins ended up in a fois gras terrine after intense gavage and the term fat has since then been banned in our family. I’d better get them. »

Me: Kids, come back here at once or I’ll pluck the feathers off your sorry tail!

Goosito 1: Couac!

Goosito 2: Couac, couac!

Goosito 3: Couac, couac, couac!

Goosito 5: Couac, couac, couac, couac, couac!

Goosito 4: Clouacl.

Me: Number 4, you must make a pronunciation effort, eh, it’s been weeks, you’re too old to lutter your couacs!

Goosito 4: Clouacl!

« Sigh. There’s always one who has to be different. At least, none of them turned out black this time around. »

Me: Kids, I’ve told you a hundred times, don’t eat the flowers, they give you cramps! Remember your six G’s: Grazing Green Grass is Good for Goose Growth. I won’t couac it again.

Mama-goose: Hey, stop it! I saw you!

Me: What’s that, my sweet down feather?

Mama-goose: You were waving your neck at that cute swan over there. You should be ashamed! Why not a sheep while you’re at it?

« She’s definitely pissed. I mean, that swan is hot, but she’s twice my size and there’s really too much feather on her, I like a bird’s feathers trimmed. Oh, speaking of feathers, there comes the tall human without one on his head. He’d look ok if he had a larger beak. Well, he’s not running today. Still walks like a duck, though. Ha! Ducks are stupid. When I go talk to them and say ‘duck’, there are always a couple who crouch instinctively. Idiots! Oh bummer, the human has got his clicking tube with him today, I guess we’re going to the zoo. »

Me: Honey, the human with the plucked head is coming this way. I know him, ok? As long as he stays a few feet away, let him wave his black tube around. If he gets too close, hiss at him. I’ll be over there.

« Mother of all goose livers! that human is tall. I hate going to the zoo. Those humans are so ugly. Well, I should lead by example. Let’s not fear him. After all this is the Stanley Park neutral zone. We tolerate them here. »

Me: Kids, let’s try to look organized here, make me proud. We’re going to march to our anti-duck litany. [clearing throat] Ready? We’ll start in C Major: A,F,F,C,F,F,A... A,F,F,C,F,G,F. Repeat after me...

All goositos: Coua-ac!!!!

Me [military drill style]: We are mighty-geese, we are not duck(s),

All goositos: We are mytea cleecks, we couac not ducks,

Goosito 4[off beat]: ... clouac clocks,

Me: Humans don’t-want our-grease but ducks they pluck.

All goositos: Yumaans dont wanta crease but couacs they couac.

Me: We are the-police while ducks play-in the-muck,

All goositos: We are the pofleece while couacs playin the luck,

Me: They leave-us in-peace so we don’t-give a-f...

Mama-goose: HONEY!? $%#$@!!!!!!!!!!!!??

Part 2 - The Raccoon

« It’s not nighttime yet, but it could be. And there is no moon tonight. But I’m in a good mood and I like the song. It was just playing out loud from a biker’s portable radio... »

Me[singing]: It was a moonlit night in old Mexico Stanley Park. I walked alone between some old adobe haciendas. Suddenly, I heard the plaintive cry of a young Mexican female raccoon... La-lalaaaaa, la-lalala la lalalaaaaa, la lalala la-lalalaaaa, la-la-la-la-la-la-lalaaaaaaaaaaa. You better come home BushyTail Gonzales...

« I mean, if it was up to me, I’d take off my bandit mask and let her see my soul naked, as I am deep inside, an honest clam-loving, food-washing, goose-hating raccoon. But, well, I’m too shy to go against the establishment. Oh, here she comes. Bloody animal behavior guidelines. Now I have to chase her around so that she’ll think I’m normal. »

Me: Hi honey, do you clam here often?

Miss-raccoon: Bug off, you walking Davy Crockett hat. I’m busy. Beside, there’s a human waving a clicking tube at me and I’m trying to look presentable. You’re standing in the way.

Me[sigh]: Well, let me chase you around for a while, to remind you of who’s wearing the fur around here.

« Huff, huff, she got away. That raccoon can run. But I’ll find her and...Holy paws! what’s that? Oh, it’s the human’s feet. I almost stepped on him. Those humans are so careless. I can’t interrupt everything I’m doing just to watch out for humans. But then if I touch one, it would probably accuse me of harassment. Ok, where is she? Hm, what’s that? No????? My friends, I just found an almost INTACT MacHuman dog treat biscuit, roast beef flavored if I’m correct. I’m going to go wash it right away. I hope the geese have cleared the pond. »

Me: Hey greasy goose, scram. I gotta wash my dinner, you dumb feathered volatile.

Papa-goose: Guys, look at the thief. Probably stole his dinner from some poor old dog and now wants to eat in peace? I don’t think so! Let’s surround him. Look at him walk. I think he’s constipated. Hahaha!

All goositos: Ha-ha-couac!

Me: You fool, you walk like a duck and your clumsy webbed feet are barely good enough to stand on. Look at me! Can you do that? Can you hold your food in your hands, uh, uh? Can you climb on a log and spin it around? Go feed some French restaurant patrons and leave me alone.

Papa-goose: If you don’t watch your mouth, furry mammal, you’re going to get your raccoon tail shoved up your...

Mama-goose: HONEY!!!%$#@$%$#@!!!!??

Part 3 - The White Swan

« Zzzzzzzzzzzzz. Uh? The eggs!? Ok, they’re still there, still warm. Sleepy. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. »
[no photo available; blame it on the raccoon]

Part 4 - The Chickadee

« Where are the bloody human crawlers? Ah, there comes one. Bloody better have food, that one. I’m bloody starved. Let’s go. »
[no photo available; blame it on the geese]

Me: Gooseman, this is Maverick, commencing dive-bombing run now.

Papa-goose: uh?

Gooseman: Roger Maverick, go get ‘em son. And report any seed sighting.

« Nose down, full throttle, afterburners on. The wind hissing in my ears, my beak heating up as I approach Mach 1... Oh no! What the flock? »

Me: I missed, I missed, I couldn’t get close enough, the glare from that featherless head is too strong, I can’t control my descent, I’m in a flat spin... Gooooose!

Papa-goose: uh?

Gooseman: Pull up, Maverick, pull up!

Me: Aaaarrrggghhhhhhh!

Gooseman: Come in, Mav’, come in! Are you still airworthy? ...

Me: Crunch. Yup. Crunch. I missed the human but I nailed the raccoon’s dog treat. Not bad. If only I had a few seeds for seasoning...

Part 5 - The Grey Heron

« Fishy-fishy-fishy-fishiiiiies. Where are you? I know you’re there. So I will not move. I am a rock. I am a statue. I am a pylon. I am as still as the Lady in a Westsuit with all the guano on her head, god bless the seagull scoundrels. I am as still as a sleeping goose - ha, I like that one. Fishieees? I will let you come to me. If only the stupid human could stop following me and aiming that clicking tube at me. It distracts me. I’d like to see him trying to eat a picnic on the beach with me staring at his food and... Hop, gotcha. Yum, tasty little bugger. An eel, aren’t you? Stop wiggling in my beak, you’re tickling me. You must have brothers. I’m not moving. I am a statue. I am... Yawn... »

Part 6 - The Human

« The animals got boring. They are so poetic it’s unbearable. They’re cute, never mean to each other, focused on what matters (civil manners), we should learn from them. And I was shooting hand-held at high ISO any way. The shots are grainy, blurry or both. But this sunset isn’t half bad after all. It’s inspiring. To be or not to be? Cogito ergo sum. E=mc². 42. Sweet bananas. »