Imagine my surprise this morning when I received an email notifying me that Big Tara, bane of my childhood, has added me on Facebook. Memories came rushing back, and I hesitated to click into her profile. In the end, I managed to do so only after consulting Wikipedia and reassuring myself that internet cables are much too thin for her gargantuan thighs to fit through.

Holy mother of—

She’s hot!

Wait, is this the same Tara of almost 20 years ago? The one who was given special treatment on our school trip to the national museum because their biologists thought she predated homo sapiens?

Gone are the hair, the fat, the possible tail. In their place, a toned, tanned body worthy of a supermodel. Indeed, in looking at her info, it seems she did go through a brief modeling stint in the late 90’s before giving it up to have children. And her children! They’re friggin’ gorgeous.

What happened, Tara? Through what portal did you crawl through, dragging your knuckles across the ground, only to strut out back again, hands on your shapely hips? What form of dark magic is this?

I don’t even know what to say to her. I had thought maybe she added me to apologize for her wrongdoings, but we’re way past that. I want to see her naked.

Oh god, I want to see Big Tara naked. What is wrong with me?!

Okay, calm down, Sir Kevin. Play it cool. Maybe send her a poke. Maybe send her a free gift. Then maybe visit her on Pet Society so you can scrub her down.

Oh god, I’m turned on by Pet Society.


My guidance counselor once told me that my penchant for schoolyard gossip and rumors would be detrimental to my own personal development, but my curiosity for secrets of all kinds has led me directly to my career in international intelligence and surveillance.

Before the arrival of gods, before the existence of matter and energy, in that abstract fluid of nothingness, there existed a figure who stood as tall as galaxies, and whose strength burst forth with the power of supernovas.

I am not so blind as to not realize that this topic is subject to crude metaphors or, perhaps worse, an epic allegory of erectile dysfunction, but this is genuine human sorrow, derived from the fact that the moment I finish writing this, I will have to throw away a banana for having turned stale. It sits on my desk now, unaware of its fate. This is for you, banana.

Roostero

3.5.09

The townsfolk thought that by having me tarred and feathered, I would die from humiliation, but they only helped me complete my human-rooster transformation.

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