Lots of craziness going on outside my apartment this morning. Kitty-corner to my yellow apartment building, a man standing outside of a different yellow apartment building is pounding strips of wood, set on top of a plastic garbage can, with a hammer, while a woman closely examines other strips of wood on the grass next to him. Two identically dressed people, both potato-shaped (russet potatoes, mind you—lumpy and oblong), wearing oversized T-shirts, stretch pants, and oversized fanny packs, gape at the house for sale down the street from me, through its eight-foot-high chain-link fence. One is clearly a man, as he has lost most of his hair, leaving only a white fringe around his ears and neck. His companion (a foot shorter, gray buzz cut) is of indeterminate gender, and stops gaping at the house for sale long enough to give Goofus and Gallant a good stare. Goofus looks likely to confuse the couple’s jerky, arrhythmic steps with the movement of a far more interesting animal: a bear, perhaps, or a cow. He strains at the leash, and I fear he will bark, causing me to say what I always say in these moments: “That’s a person, buddy.” Ha ha! As if there could be any doubt in anyone’s tiny mind!
The house for sale is still being worked on daily by contractors. Clearly the owner is hoping an infusion of earnest money will allow him to finish this project, which has gone on for at least the seven months I’ve lived here. The house has been gutted, and it’s still on stilts from when the foundation was repaired, and the exterior has been stripped but not yet repainted. The owner is crazy to try to sell it now, but he is—trying to sell it, that is—and his contractor is crazy. He arrives as the couple lurches away from the house, trying to keep his barking pit bull in his white rapist’s van, yelling nonsense phrases—“That’s a happening forestry kit in the party room!” or “Good to forget the Saturday pants that other time!” I’ve never seen him completely lose control of the barking pit bull, but I’ve considered that a crazy guy is perhaps not the best person to be in charge of a potentially dangerous animal. But what would I do? Call animal control? Call crazy guy control?
I resent the thug dawgs their bodily functions, which wake me before 8 every morning and drag me out of the house at inconvenient times. But one of the true joys of dog ownership, for me, has been the requisite walk down the street multiple times a day. Most of my favorite memories, in fact, come out of things I was forced to do.
Not that walking down the street this morning was a really great memory or nothing, but you know what I mean.
Hey, speaking of great things to do with your pets, you know what else is a great thing to do with your pets? Have sex with them. For purposes of the ongoing Untimely Movie Review portion of this blog, I should mention that I saw Zoo several weeks ago, and it was pretty jaw-droppingly beautiful and equally jaw-droppingly, um, odd. I’ve been interested in bestiality for a while now, by which I most certainly do not mean that I’ve been interested in pursuing it as a lifestyle of my own, thank you, but I find it weird and kind of crazy and kind of funny. Several years ago, when I was invited to write a play for the local theatre, I made one of the main characters a hotel detective who falls for a woman who keeps talking about how she was crowned Jerry Falwell Little Lamb of God 1983—that is, when she’s not dropping hints about how she likes having sex with horses, using biblical quotes to support this activity. When my computer crashed a few years later, I lost the script, which is quite a loss for future directors hoping to stage a festival of badly attempted imitations of Joe Orton’s works.
I think that was all inspired by this site, which may or may not be for realsies, but sure is complete and detailed. And furries—I think that was around the time I first heard about furries. Which isn’t the same as bestiality, I know, but frankly I’m not sure which is more disturbing—being sexually attracted to animals, or being turned on by putting on a big fuzzy outfit and boning some other dork who is turned on by putting on a big fuzzy outfit and boning some dork.
Hey—I think I dated that orange thing!
The weirdest thing about Zoo is the elephant in the room that no one wants to talk about (but everyone wants to have sex with! Hell-o! Am I right?), which is that, as cute and adorable as animals can be, and as much as people are prone to interpret an animal’s actions as based in human emotion (“The way that horse looks at me, I just know he understands me”), and as much as other people suck sometimes, and are boring and silly and hurtful, if you’re having sex with a horse, that still means that you like having horse penis (Have you seen one? Those things are enormous!) thrust repeatedly inside you by an animal that weighs, probably, six times as much as you. But no. The zoos interviewed in the movie kept to the party line, repeating that it was all about loving the animal and respecting the animal and the animal doesn’t want to talk about Britney Spears’ marriage or Lindsey Lohan’s hoohah, it just wants to love you.
And as amusing as all that is, and as much as I, too, hate people, I must say that there’s a line that Aunty Christ has drawn when it comes to her sexual partners, and on the side of the line against which she refuses to rub her pink, swollen genital region (oh, go read the dolphin link, above) live not only animals, but most of humankind as well. So it’s nothing against you animals! Sorry. Go have sex elsewhere, please, animals!
The zoos also supported their behavior by saying that the horses wouldn’t become aroused and have sex with the humans if they didn’t want to have sex with the humans. This is no doubt true, but perhaps because the horses didn’t have the opportunity to have sex with other horses, and perhaps because the horses were attempting to establish dominance, and almost certainly because things, in general, like having sex with other things.
Why that is, however, remains uncertain to Aunty. Further research may be required.