OK. Here's what happened.
I was totally over at Juke's profile, browsing her photos like the internet voyeur that I am, when I came across the above image of a woman being set upon by a mass of angry creatures.
I was like all, "Huh?"
Faced with the unknown like that - the inexplicable and impossibly odd - I felt compelled to provide my own history for the photo. It's my way of restoring order to the universe. If I didn't do it, I'd go to sleep every night thinking I was going to wake up surrounded by those diseased little bastard animals.
I defined my own reality so that I could control it.
The explanation follows below. I originally posted it in Juke's picture comments, but then I was like all, "I enjoy reading this excellent piece of 'Merican literature," and decided to post it here as well. Some grammatical errors have been corrected. There were a few letters in the wrong places, but I fired them. They'll never work in this town again.
Now, I can't promise you that my little bit of writing here is going to make any sense, but I can tell you that I thought it was delightful.
If you don't think it's delightful, then it's because you did something bad and God is punishing you by preventing you from enjoying works of genius. It's why you've never been able to enjoy It's a Small World at Disneyland. Yeah, that's right. It's not because the ride sucks cartoon mouse balls. The rest of us totally enjoy ourselves, and we sing along. It's a fabulous multicultural tour de force funstravaganza to the maximum, whereas, for you, it's a private hell, and the joy of the experience shall forever elude you like a lubricated eel in a windstorm.
Well. Glad I got that off my chest.
But let's continue.
Except for a couple corrections, the following is a stream of consciousness look inside of my head. A sort of textual inkblot based on what the photo made me think.
I expect there'll be some graduate studies based on this revealing document...
I'm gonna tell you the truth here, but you probably won't like it. First, I'd ask you: Have you ever seen a pigeon nest?
I said, HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A PIGEON NEST?
Of course not. The pigeons, you see, have a secret they don't want you to know, and it totally doesn't involve JFK. That's old-school conspiracy bullshit. The pigeons had nothing to do with it. They pick their victims based on very specific criteria, and the late, great Mr. K didn't meet their requirements.
"Requirements for what?" I hear you say.
I'll ask you a second question: Have you ever seen two pigeons getting it on? I'm sure there's some beastie perv out there who's done amazing photoshopping work to produce such a photo, but the experts (that's me) know damn well that pigeons don't get it on. They don't even have reproductive organs.
What you're witnessing in this picture - documented here for the first time - is your standard pigeonal molecular breakdown of organic materials for use in their enormous underground cloning vats.
Yeah - you read that right. The pigeons have built a massive World Beneath the World. They have their own schools, restaurants, and even late-night cig shops where a stressed out pigeon can get a nice little nic-fix.
There is, of course, a hierarchy within pigeonkind. Being a non-human intelligence, it's difficult for us to understand their system entirely, but it seems to involve something not unlike a traditional caste system in which there are pigeons at the top - all sipping brandy while reading the pink sheet - and pigeons at the bottom who were genetically engineered by the finest minds of pigeon science.
Having outlawed sex in the great Magma War of 1195 (pigeons have been at it for a long time - they split the atom centuries before our own precious Einstein managed - some even say Einstein consorted with pigeons, and got his ideas from one after drugging and interrogating it). Following the outlawing of sex, pigeons used the power of science to have their reproductive organs removed.
This was the catalyst that kicked off a debate that lasted for many years - the pigeons call it The Great Argument - in which the Pigeon Minister of Purity, along with his followers, butted beaks with the Pigeon Minister of Pigeonal Advancement.
The purity minister was pleased with the removal of all hot sexy pigeon parts, but the advancement minister, actually being somewhat intelligent, pointed out that the sex organs are rather important when it comes to creating more pigeons.
When generations of pigeons started to drop dead without any heirs, it was obvious to everyone that there was a serious problem. Unfortunately, by this time (remember - it lasted nearly a hundred years), the purity minister had become Emperor of Pigeononia. Despite the deaths and shrinking population, the emperor stood his moral ground, letting pigeons die by the trillions (there were a lot of 'em).
The deaths would have continued, too, right up to extinction. You see, when the emperor was coronated, he had the advancement minister de-feathered, forced to walk the streets nude, stripped of his title and his feathery essence.
While many pigeons laughed at this poor wandering soul, some were sympathetic. Over time, the former minister of advancement was able to build a small army of like-minded pigeons, bent on destroying the emperor pigeon and making way for a new era in which science reigned over pigeonkind, and a cure for their prudish mistake was found.
In this way, the emperor dethroned himself. It was the power of compassion and sympathy on behalf of the other pigeons that made it possible for the former advancement minister to recruit so many for his cause.
One day - no noise, no guns, no applause - the emperor was removed from his position and executed by a public beaking in the town square. Riots ensued, but they weren't all that dangerous given that the only pigeons left were the old ones who were already dying off. It was reported that one pigeon pushed another out of his wheelchair, but there's nothing to back that up.
Now, the former minister's rebellion wasn't only about taking the emperor down. All the while, they were also working on a way to continue their kind without reproductive organs.
The obvious answer? As I mentioned earlier, it was the construction of new pigeons in huge underground cloning vats. It was brilliant, and after a short time, the system was in place and running, producing the occasional pigeon.
The problem is that, to create a living thing, one requires certain ingredients. Ingredients one can find in many other living things.
Even humans.
Look at the photograph above, and ask yourself why this woman is so scared. It isn't because there are so many pigeons - were it only that, a good swift kick would disperse the crowd nicely (fuck off, PETA - I'm just kidding here).
No. This woman is in pain.
Again, look at the photo - what do you see? Look at the pigeons on the inside of the circle, and then look at the pigeons on the edge of the circle. What do you notice?
If you're clever like me (you're not), you'll see that while the pigeons in the center are very busy with putting this woman into a great deal of pain, the ones on the edge are facing away - look at the bottom of the photo - the pigeons are standing tall in the face of the photographer, preventing him access to his beautiful wife.
Those are Guardian Pigeons - tasked with keeping the inner circle of pigeons safe, even if it means giving up their lives.
The inner circle... that's where the action is. That's where It happens.
The pigeons closest to the center are using molecular destabilizers to unweave this woman's DNA and reduce it to a soupy substance that drips to the ground as though she were a dish of ice-cream in a supernova.
It's horrific, but that's pigeons for you.
Once she's been entirely rendered, a special group of pigeons will come in, suck up and swallow as much of the liquid as possible (the liquid being the melted lady), return to Pigeononia, and barf the lady-juice into a great vat from which the cloning vats take the organic material required to create new pigeons.
New pigeons. That's what they are. New pigeons made of human flesh and bones and meat.
Next time you think poorly of a pigeon, just remember that it's made of us. It could be your cousin.
Your best friend.
One day, it could even be you...