The Biped wonders why I’m intrigued by a potato, jammed into the neck of an oversized bottle with a duck on the side. Me? I wonder why the Biped saw fit to jam the aforementioned spud in the neck of the aforementioned bottle in the first place, and let it sit there for the last 12 hours.
To be frank, there are many things about your species that leave me flummoxed, but nothing is more baffling than your collective desire to adorn me with fake testicles, three-dimensional diapers, and now this – The Shed Defender, a hideous leotard of unnatural fiber, designed to keep my hair from falling out in the way God intended.
Many of you have requested I allow myself to be jammed into this latex onesie and prance around like some sort of furry sausage. Well, I’m here to tell you, that dog don’t hunt. I mean, come on. Look at these poor bastards. What kind of bet did they lose? Are they off to a bobsled meet? Are they going to space? Do they even know they’re wrapped in what amounts to pair of giant underpants?
Look – just because H. Sapien has turned his back on shame doesn’t mean I’m incapable of experiencing it. So – thanks, but no. I’ll continue to go commando and watch my hair fall out, in accordance with my species. And you can continue to pick it up, in accordance with yours.
Regards,
Freddy