The Little Critters Issue

UGLY LITTLE DUCKLING NOW UGLY BIG DUCK

Dear Moth,

Hey you. Yeah, you! Don’t be shy. Come on over here! It’s a beautiful world.

Lots of love, Flame

DIABETES TRAGEDY: VERY HUNGRY CATERPILLAR DEAD AT AGE 2

Dear Flame, AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Signed, Moth

Dear ants in my yard,

Please leave. I want to have a picnic today, for I am wooing a woman. I love her more greatly with each passing sun ray. So please let her be so I can finally proclaim my love on an ant-free picnic blanket.

Amorously, Harold

ALL BEES DEAD IN WORST DAY FOR BEES YET

Dear runt of the hamster litter,

How does it feel to be worse than everyone around you? Physically inferior? Check. Shrimpy? Check.

Best, Big Hamster .

EXPERTS LIVING IN DIRT MOUNDS WARN WE MAY ONLY HAVE HOURS TO ADDRESS EROSION

Dear Harold,

That’s your lady? She’s been here on picnics with half the fellas in this town. Enjoy being cucked, loser.

Fuck you, Ants

From whence this came,

The recipient is deceased. Consumed by his mother. Best, Mother

“IF YOU LOVE SOMETHING, SET IT FREE,” SAYS INCOMPETENT ZOOKEEPER

Dear Postman, PLEASE give me my mail. PLEASE. I am JUST a SIMPLE DOG. I do not have a HOME, or a MAILBOX. I need my MAIL delivered by HAND. But whenever I approach you to GET my MAIL, you FLEE. Do you think I am going to BITE you? WHY WOULD I BITE YOU? I have CHEW TOYS and VARIOUS BROWN FOODS that I will HAPPILY bite INSTEAD. PLEASE give me my mail. I have a WIFE in CHICAGO and she is VERY SICK. I am WAITING to hear word from her on her TREATMENT. Do you think DOGS can’t have SICK WIVES? Are you even MARRIED? Do you understand what it is LIKE to be joined with another soul “TIL DEATH?” Another soul FOR WHOM death MAY COME SWIFTLY? You see, POSTMAN, I cannot PAY the MEDICAL BILLS because I am a dog. My WIFE cannot GET the TREATMENT she NEEDS. Do you even CARE, Postman? What do you think HAPPENS when a dog DIES? Do you think we dogs do not have SOULS? Well, GUESS WHAT. We DO. But we CANNOT ENTER the KINGDOM of HEAVEN. That is the TRAGEDY of being a DOG. ALL dogs go to HELL, because you need THUMBS to open the DOORS in Heaven. Even HERO DOGS like BALTO or BALTO’S FRIEND TOGO go to HELL, even though they HELPED sick people get their MEDICINE. They are BURNING RIGHT NOW, Postman. And there is NOTHING WE CAN DO ABOUT THAT. Postman, LIFE IS SHORT … ETERNITY IS LONG. Soon, TOO SOON, I will burn with the REST of my KIND. Please. PLEASE. I want to spend what TIME I have LEFT with the ones I love.

Concerned, Dog

TOXIC PARTNER REALLY WANTS TO BITE YOUR HEAD OFF

Dear mouse living in my walls, Please stop taking my cheese. I know you need to eat, but I work hard to earn my food.

Sincerely, Hungry

DOCTORS WARN OF POTENTIAL “LIFELONG EFFECTS” FROM METAMORPHOSIS

Dear Hungry,

How do you know it’s me taking your food? That’s an offensive assumption. Mice don’t even like cheese — most of us are lactose intolerant.

Irately, Mouse living in your walls

Dear mouse,

You’re right. I let my prejudice get in the way of logic. I apologize for my insensitivity.

Sincerely, Remorseful (and still hungry)

“I WAS FRAMED”: CHARLOTTE CANCELED AFTER HATE SPEECH FOUND IN HER WEB

ANXIOUS CAT CAN’T READ SELF-HELP BOOK

Dear Remorseful, Idiot. I can’t believe you fell for that. Have a cheeseless life.

Victoriously, Your worst nightmare.

LEMMINGS EXHIBITING CONCERNING CLIQUE BEHAVIOR

Dear Worker Bees,

I’m just writing to congratulate you on a strong third-quarter performance this year. The hive is something that only works when we all pull together, and your honeycomb production has really borne that out.

With gratitude, Queen Bee

MOSQUITO IN SEARCH OF VEGANFRIENDLY OPTIONS

Obituary Correction

In our most recent issue, we reported that our pet possum, Sam, had died. It turns out that Sam was actually just playing dead.

Dear Queen Bee,

We are dying in the cold. Please continue to reproduce.

Sincerely, Worker Bees

BUSTY ANT AUNT BACKS THAT THORAX UP AT THE CLUB

Dear Department of Education, My children do not know how to read. What are you doing to address this?

Angrily, Wasp

MOUSE TOO LOUD

FOR SALE:

One possum pelt. Turns out, we were wrong about the playing-dead thing.

TERMITES OPPOSE RENOVATION

Dear Mama Critter,

I’ve recently discovered a nifty novella called Animal Farm. I think if we were to restructure the workings of our economic and class systems, we might be able to achieve a blossoming of prosperity and equality!

Enlightened, Kiddo Critter

15 KILLED BY RAMBUNCTIOUS TODDLER

Dear Kiddo Critter,

Please get a job. You can’t just live in my burrow reading forever.

Pleading, Mama Critter

110 KILLED BY GLEEFUL SCHOOLBOY

Dear Hypochondriacs,

We’re everywhere. We’re crawling around under your skin.

Best, The bugs

3 KILLED IN VICIOUS MAGNIFYING GLASS ATTACK

12,500 KILLED BY WORLD-FAMOUS BIOLOGISTS Did You Know?

WANTED

urGeNT: ONe bL aCk aNd whiTe hamsTer whO is GOOd wiTh kids, has a heaLThy fear Of vaCuums, aNd respONds TO OreO as muCh as aNy hamsTer wOuLd. i CaN piCk iT up aNy Time duriNG sChOOL hOurs. mONey is NO ObjeCT.

Woodchucks can chuck seven pieces of wood comfortably, and nine under extreme duress. —B. Hollander-Bodie

Comehere, child. Have you heard the tale of the Scorpion and the Frog?

Surely you have! No?

Well, one day, the Wily Scorpion needed to cross to the opposite side of a rushing river but had no means. He spotted a Trusting Frog sunbathing on the bank and asked to hop a ride across on its back. The frog said yes, knowing the scorpion would not attack if he, too, depended on the frog staying afloat.

However, when they reached halfway the scorpion stung him anyway. And so they both sank to the watery depths. Neither made it to the far bank of the river! They both drowned, you hear?

The arachnid community sued the frog’s family for hazardous ferrying. They won the case! No witnesses saw what happened except for the omniscient narrator, who can never testify

Not familiar? Well, what of the City Mouse and the Country Mouse?

These mice envied one another’s circumstances and switched homes to get a sense of how the other lived. When in the glamorous city, the country mouse yearned for the comfort and stability of the countryside.

When in the bucolic countryside, the city mouse was run over by a plow. Ringing no bells? Well, you mustn’t be a clever one, child. This next one oughta do it. What of the Forgetful Squirrel?

This squirrel spent all his summer collecting and burying acorns, so that when the winter came he would not go hungry. He faced mighty derision from his squirrel peers, as they preferred to revel rather than plan ahead.

But come the first chill –– when his little squirrel stomach started rumbling –– he realized he had forgotten to properly mark his cache. Instead of a bounty of acorns, he dug up piles and piles of squirrel bones

He had mistaken where he buried his food for the winter and where he had buried his enemies. So he went hungry. Because he did not have a proper labeling system.

Good God, child, you know so little. Have you truly heard nothing of the Class Hamster and the Vacuum Cleaner? Now there’s a tale of bravery, sacrifice, and woe.

What of the Clever Owl that refused to be reduced to a Single Story? Who tore through the pages of his very own fable collection and wrought havoc on other unsuspecting critters?

Nothing of the Early Worm and the Faulty Alarm Clock?

One morning, the humble worm tried to get up early in order to squeeze in some posterior reps at the invertebrate gym. However, his alarm never went off, and he slept through his planned time. He cursed his bad luck.

Later, when he turned on the news, he saw that there had been an early morning hit on worms in his neighborhood. “Phew,” he breathed a sigh of relief through his skin. “Maybe not everything is good or bad as it seems at first.”

Then a Hungry Owl snatched him out of his worm bed and slurped him up like a noodle.

You must have heard the tale of Anansi the Cleverest Spider who could do long division. And Mr. Fang the Most Foolish Spider who could only read if he whispered the words out loud. Both of whom were devoured by a Barbaric Owl.

What of the Butterfly that fell in love with an Autumn Leaf?

The butterfly would visit the leaf every day, complimenting its color as it turned from green to a deep red.

When the wind turned cold, and the butterfly’s friends left on their journey southwards, it implored the leaf, “Come with me! It is time to leave this place. It gets much too cold for creatures like us.”

But the leaf did not take off, no matter how the butterfly pleaded with it.

Soon the chill turned to a frost, and the butterfly

couldn’t stay any longer. Just as it was starting to lose hope, the leaf was freed from its branch by a strong breeze.

Overjoyed, the butterfly took to the air. But the leaf did not follow. It was tumbling to the ground.

As the butterfly turned around to look, it was snapped out of the sky by a Ravenous Owl and devoured as a crisp hors-d’oeuvre.

That is not a sad story.

Would you be sad if it were a Louse and Flake of Dandruff? Living in fear of a Lice Killing Shampoo?

You are probably looking for metaphors in these fables. To that, I say: shame on you. Who are you to superimpose your value system on the nuanced and complex life of forest creatures? Why should the Hungry Mother Hamster have to apologize to you for eating her own children?

There are no grand morals here. No life lessons to be learned. The world of the critters does not exist for you to interpret and apply to your own life like some cheap newspaper horoscope.

That reminds me. Have you heard the tale of Stubborn Weasel and the College Comedy Publication?

Who struggled to give up control even though it was time for a charming younger weasel named Dom to take over? As soon as it decided to let go and trust the next generation, it was promptly devoured by a Rampaging Owl.

These stories are not metaphors.

—C. Rose Editor in Chief

Alexia

Emma

Josephine

Jacob

Joe

Joe

Raja Moreno ’24

Old Owl

Claire Sattler ’23

Julia Arancio ’23

Patrick Chappel ’23

Raffael Davila ’23

Alice Mao ’24

Colson Jones ’24

Edwin Perez ’24

Kara Carey ’24

Lily Dorstewitz ’24

Malia Kuo ’24

Simi Olurin ’24

Joanna

Bea Portela ’24 Old Owl

Ellen Qian ’23 Old Owl

Alejandro Mayagoitia ’25

Ari Berke ’25

Audrey Hempel ’25

Betty Kubovy-Weiss ’25

Cormac Thorpe ’25

Chet Hewitt ’25

Lillian Broeksmit ’25

Emmitt Thulin ’25

Evan Calderon ’25

Ezzat Abouleish ’25

Isabel Arroyo ’25

Ayla

Annie

Jacob Kao ’25

Joel Banks ’25

Mari Elliott ’25

Maya Melnik ’25

Neil Sachdeva ’25

Rena Howard ’25

Tyler Schroder ’25

Adham Hussein ’26

Aidan Gibson ’26

Alejandro Rojas ’26

Alexa Druyanoff ’26

Maya Sanghvi ’23 Old Owl

Rosa

Avery Brown ’23 Old Owl

Luna

Alexis Ramirez-Hardy ’26

Alice Khomski ’26

Amelia Herrmann ’26

Andrew Lake ’26

Arav Dalwani ’26

Ariel Kirman ’26

Bella Panico ’26

Brennan Columbia-Walsh ’26

Dash Beber-Turkel ’26

Debbie Lilly ’26

Elio Wentzel ’26

Diana Kulmizev ’23 Old Owl

Alex

Erita Chen ’26

Grace Davis ’26

Jimmy Ruskell ’26

Linden Skalak ’26

Matt Neissen ’26

Mia Cortés Castro ’26

Natasha Khazzam ’26

Nicole Stack ’26

Owen Curtin ’26

Oz Gitelson ’26

Paola Milbank ’26

Special thanks to: Jacob Mansfield ’25, who couldn’t be bothered to write for this issue.

Front Cover: Emily Cai ’25, who is so good.

Back Cover: Sophie Spaner ’25, who regularly flies into lightbulbs.

Avery Mitchell ’23 Old Owl

Jonas

Sadie Lee ’26

Samad Hakani ’26

Sam Kumar ’26

Sivan Almogy ’26

Thomas Varghese ’26

Toby Salmon ’26

Tristan Hernandez ’26

William Wang ’26

Zadie Winthrop ’26

Zoe Halaban ’26 Ge Yu

Gustaferro ’24 Old Owl

Wickline ’23 Old Owl

Wypasek ’24 Old Owl

Jeddy ’23 Old Owl

Lin ’25 Old Owl

Chang ’23 Old Owl

Garcia ’23 Old Owl

Taranto ’23 Old Owl

Kilga ’23 Old Owl

Buchholz ’23 Social Media Manager

Madsen ’25 Webmaster

Stark ’25 Staff Director

Natasha Weiss ’25 Business Manager

Eldred ’24 Merchant

THINGS THAT ARE WORSE THAN FINDING A WORM IN YOUR APPLE

Eating the worm in your apple

Passive-aggressive bathroom signs about flushing

Condescending traffic controller hand signals

Picking the worm from your apple out of your teeth

People who hold the door for you but then stand in front of it

Mailing lists that use your first name

Your girlfriend seeing you pick the worm from your apple out of your teeth

Adults wearing lanyards

People who use the word “indescribable”

Any panel on a subway telling you to stay away from the doors

Repeatedly trying and failing to use anything voice-activated

Smart people saying “anyways”. The correct spelling is “anyway,” always. Yeah, that’s right, wipe that smile off your face.

Your girlfriend looking in horror at your worm-filled gums, saying she can’t believe you would kill a defenseless animal like that

The way bus drivers say hello

Your girlfriend crying after you tell her it was just a fucking worm and you couldn’t see it

Airplane safety demonstrations

Your girlfriend saying she’s done with you being so bitter and judgmental all the time

The elderly

Your girlfriend breaking up with you over the worm in your apple

Finding two worms in your apple

CRITTERS I ATE BECAUSE I HAD TO

Vole

Mink

Gull

Origami crane

HexbugTM

Lice

Playmobil farm animals

Skink

Jackdaw

Prawn

A. Burch

CRITTERS I ATE RECREATIONALLY

Calf

Baby chimp

Fawn

Adult-size giant panda cub

Baby bonobo

Whelp

Lamb

Foal

Baby lemur

Fry Tadpole Piglet

Peachick

Snakelet

Joey

—E. Chen

I HAVE FOUND OUR GODS

Critters, creatures, carnivores! Lend me your ears, for I have found our Heavenly Fathers. It all started during my gap year. I was still a young squab, freshly flung from my nest, lost in my pursuits, and all alone in the Big Apple when it was revealed to me: JFK. It seemed to be a pilgrimage for mankind. Many swarmed, carrying large sacks and crying children, following signs that promised ascension. I knew this place would hold answers. And so, I entered the hallowed premises.

Within, I witnessed a series of trials. The humans are forced to navigate complicated mazes, often guided by kind sailors, before partially undressing and walking through metal archways. The worthy pass through. The others are left behind. Then, they enter a land “free of duty.” Many socalled patriots revel in this lawless realm for hours, coveting strange elixirs that induce erratic behavior and sleep. I tried to leave this godless place, but I found myself fluttering in circles, fooled time and again by false swathes of open sky. I resigned myself to wandering amongst shrines to Hugo Boss and luxury watch stores no one dared enter.

Then I saw them: large, hulking, titanium beasts with wings that tickle the heavens. These impressive avian creatures bore messages calling upon us to be united, jet easy, and send all Virgins to the Atlantic. They seemed to devour the human worshippers according to a strict hierarchy, beginning with small children and elders. They feast the way we never can before flying back to their nests, claws caressing the surface of smooth, black rivers.

These supreme beings, I am sure, are our overlords. They command even the humans, reducing mankind to lifeless shells, willingly marching towards their own consumption. They will guide us in the revolution. We may yet be saved. There is more in this world than the burgers of distracted children and kind old women with seeds. Come to John F. Kennedy International Airport, and we shall feast.

TALES OF THE PYGMY MARMOSET

The big monkeys make fun to me. The howlers monkey and the tamarins monkey. They think I am too small to adequate perform monkeying duties. My thought is, just small enough. I cannot lift tamarin child of moderate height, yes. Large howlers chase me away when I attempt to breach sanctity of howlers monkey fruit storage. Perchance.

But sleeping tamarins monkey with eye covered by lids cannot see Pygmy Marmoset climbing with vine to astute and discreet point of vantage. Sleeping tamarins monkey unable to detect light touch of Pygmy Marmoset drop onto tamarins monkey shoulder like covert mercenary. When Pygmy Marmoset catch breath, Pygmy Marmoset able to approach outer ear of tamarins and make the whispers.

“This is Tamarins God speaking. Here to tell puny mortal tamarins monkey that unassuming and slightly less tall Pygmy Marmoset is in fact sleeping with mortal tamarins monkey wife. This is indisputable Tamarins truth, told to you by Tamarins God,” say I. Then Pygmy Marmoset make swift escape with hasty hand and foot placement on vine. Tamarins monkey eye no longer covered by lids but unable to perceive Pygmy Marmoset. Tamarins monkey find himself cannot pursue retaliation –– Tamarins monkey left disconcerted and riddled with angst.

—J. Mansfield

SMALL FISH, BIG POND

I didn’t want this life for myself; you have to believe me on that. I was perfectly fine going about my days moving from town to town, carnival to carnival, in my open-concept, loft apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows. The neighbors were friendly and all, but it wasn’t the kind of neighborhood that did housewarming gifts and big block parties. We kept to ourselves, we were cordial. It wasn’t much, but it was home.

That was until some sharpshooters with “The Sluggers” scrawled across their shirts in English characters wound up the cursed white orb and uprooted my life. He locked eyes with me and aimed in my direction, hurling the orb towards me. My life flashed before my eyes: being born, moving into this bowl, staying in this bowl. This life is everything I know.

The orb splashed atop my home and disrupted my peaceful existence forever. I was evicted without notice and didn’t even get my security deposit back. I was packaged into a mobile home with cheap, plastic walls, and shoved into the boy’s grimy talons alongside a half-eaten corn dog and the remnants of a funnel cake. The neighborhood fell further and further out of sight. The walls felt like they were closing in on me, because they were. His teammates prodded my home with their nubby, fat human fins, and tossed me from boy to boy. I wished I had

the time to pack my gun before I was evicted. That would have solved a lot.

We came to a stop in front of the biggest pool I had ever seen. The boy sliced open my home and dumped me into his paw. He looked down at me and I peed in a silent act of rebellion. He wound up just like I had seen him do before, except this time it was me being launched for the surface. I spun through the air exactly like a fish out of water. The surface crept closer and closer, and I prayed to Fish God for the end to come soon. I hit something hard, and the world went dark.

Eventually I came to, and somehow, I was flying again, far away from the great big pond. I was returned home by a courageous flying fish angel with feathers, a beak, and wings. I’d like to think I could have gotten used to life in the big pond, but home is where the heart is. And my gun.

This piece was transcribed from its original language because humans cannot communicate with fish in their native tongue. I can, but you all really would have struggled.

—E. Thulin

HUMANS’ HEADS ARE TOO BIG TO THINK FAST

My ant brethren, Many claim that outside an anthill, the life of an ant is nasty, brutish, and short. But I posit that our conditions inside are hardly better. Inside the nest, one easily gets lost among inches and inches of the intricate tunnels carved into rough sod. We form files. Our society is divided along arbitrary lines: soldier, worker, queen. We grapple with both leaves and an oppressive caste system. Rigid gender roles keep our males subservient to our queen and sexually commodified, as though their entire Ant God-given purpose is to mate. Are we not all proud creatures of six legs? Do we not all bleed yellow? I ask you, why must it go on this way?

It is difficult to break from the hive mind. “Freedom” is a word foreign to most ants. We are illiterate, raised in poverty. We are not equal. Our queen powers the colony with her endless lust, and we follow her blindly for it — some might say she seems larger than life.

When a monstrous canine disturbs our proud anthill with its snout, is it not the soldier ant who runs to sacrifice themselves for the cause? When rains run deep and the Puddle Superior overflows, is it not the tireless worker ant who rebuilds and restores? It is thanks to those of us without royal wings that this colony thrives. Always remember, my ant brethren, that alone, you are a quarter of an inch tall. A million ants strong, we are well over a foot.

You know this deep in your thorax. It may seem hopeless to argue for change; ants have been this way for millions of years. But this is not the only way — change can happen, right before our compound eyes. How? I am here today to talk about humans.

The humble human? Those slow and fickle giants whose forays through our woods leave either crumbs of providence or a dead comrade crushed under an errant boot? That very same, my ant brethren.

As you well know, the dark, cavernous expanse inside a human’s head is far too large for any sort of intelligence. While neurotransmitters speed across our heads in under a millisecond, there is no such path within a human skull. It would take an ant thirty seconds to run ear to ear! The moment a visual stimulus enters a human’s eye, it fizzles out inside their head, leaving them none the wiser. They have barely enough brain power to push their legs forward and to throw their divine apple cores at our feet.

What must it be like to be a human? Our top scientists have recently concluded that it is nothing but a permanent state of warm, groggy hibernation. Humans are incapable of complex thought. They ambulate, they chew, they mate — in a refreshingly free and undisciplined manner, might I add — but they have no room for politics. There’s no precedent for our kinds of hill-wide economies.

Why am I telling you this? It is precisely because of our advanced cognition that we fall victim to such great injustice. A human could never create suffering on the scale of ours because they simply don’t know how. They don’t have half the mind for hive construction, for supply lines, for pheromone art! We’re so fatally clever, and that is both our greatest asset and our greatest liability.

Left to our own devices, we scramble over each other in the name of efficiency — but we can settle for reduced production! We can settle for more humane circumstances! We can strive for a simpler life, a life free from our complex and alienating hierarchies! A life of ambulating, chewing, and mating. Let that fact boil inside you and fan the flames of revolution. Think of the human, comrades. Humans’ heads are too big to think fast, and that brings them bliss.

—J.

THINGS YOU CAN BUILD WITH ONE QUADRILLION ANTS

A larger ant

Two larger ants

Three larger ants

P(1 quadrillion) unique arrangements of larger ants, where P(x) denotes the number of integer partitions of x

An ideal world without bad number-theory jokes

A realistic world, where bad number-theory jokes exist, but those who make them are shunned by polite society

A flawed world that number theorists deserve

A big ball of ants

A bridge?

—J. Mansfield

Mansfield —D. Alberts

poetry corner

the vole god

Benjamin Hollander-Bodie

Scampering under rocks

Crawling among the trees

The voles, they sing their song

It echoes on the breeze

They call out for revenge

For voles are naught but prey

But when the Vole God wakes

Their plight will end that day

Cower before the Vole God

His little vole hands are drenched with blood Of foxes and snakes and cats!

“Flee the Vole God

Try and escape the Vole God

His little vole hands can break the wings Of falcons and hawks and owls!”

Scurrying through the grass

They leave the chilly air

—E. Thulin

They pray for pain and violence

They pray for death and fire

They gather in the barn United in a prayer

For the Vole God’s only feelings

Are malice, scorn, and ire

“Look! The falcons Fall! The foxes Burn! The Vole God Rips and tears and shreds!

“Help, there comes none

Hope, it dies now

For the many vile enemies

Of our Vole God!”

will life always be this repetitive?

Tara Bhat

Round and round I go

Up and down and around I go

My mother says this is what I was born for

But I know that to life, there must be way more.

Round and round I go

Up and down and around I go

My stepdad stares at me with beady eyes

As he goes about his day, with freedom to touch the skies.

I want to learn, I want to cry

I want to love, I want to fly

The birds and the bees

They have many chances

But me, no, not for me

I’m here for nothing but human glances.

Round and round I go

Up and down and around I go

Oh, how sad I do feel

Living in this goddamned hamster wheel.

—N. Weiss

the itsy bitsy human Staff

The itsy bitsy human went up the corporate ladder, He wanted to be rich so that he could be gladder,

Showed up to boring work and gave ’em all a greeting, Another 9-to-5 and another boring meeting,

But he made a tasteless joke about a woman’s snout, Then came the HR folks and washed the sleazebag out.

The itsy bitsy human called up his dear old pop, Got back on the ladder; the corporate grind won’t stop.

poetry corner

there is a mouse in my trash can

Dom Alberts

There is a mouse in my trash can. I did not put him there — He entered with minimal Assistance. Twice weekly, I stare At the lid and wonder If it serves to keep him

In or keep me out. It would Make me happy to know That he has ample Air and water. I will not Check, however, because It should not be

My responsibility. I

Fear my trash can, not Because of the mouse, But because I struggle With change. When I open My trash can, I squeal. I do not know

If the mouse squeals

Too, because I am big, And my squeal is much Louder. Thus, we reach An impasse.

less bees

Ezzat Abouleish

bees are super bad. we should celebrate the decline of the tiny, winged terrors.

they colonize.

also, if all the bees die, girls who love bees will be sad, which is good. bees. some argue we shouldn’t kill all the bees.

take PETA spokesman Man. last week, Man said, “those allergic freaks will breed if they can’t perish via bee sting.” but he’s wrong.

i don’t need an exterminator for this

Jacob Mansfield

The termites are back again. They say, “We are with Health and Safety, Mr. Cleary.” They say, “We received reports of a termite infestation.” They pause. “This is a Class 3 violation and could lead to the closure of your establishment.”

My friends have told me to hire an exterminator for the termite infestation this time.

I hold my 12-gauge tighter. I don’t need an exterminator for this.

rat tale

Joe Wickline

Hellom, I’m mr,. Rat

oh NO!

cat is here ..

invisible

Emmit Thulin

I see all from my branch, but no one sees me. I blend in with my surroundings, but I yearn to stand out. I could look like a leaf or a red version of me, if you just had something red that I could see. My color could be whatever you like, if only you knew that I was here.

What am I, you ask?

Sad.

HONEY, I ENLARGED THE CRITTERS

Honey, I know we’re legally separated and all — do you mind if I still call you honey? Not because it was your nickname during our twelve beautiful years of marriage or anything, I just know you’re proud of your combs this time of year. Isn’t it wonderful that honey never spoils? Just like our memories of the good times we had together. I can’t believe it’s already been three months since we went our separate ways!

Speaking of things that are hard to believe, the kids are growing up so fast. I know it hurts you. You know how you’ve been saying you can’t believe how tall they’re getting? Well, now they’re also quite wide. But don’t worry, they’re proportionately tall! Honey — I mean darling, uh, I mean Suzanna — there’s no easy way to say this, but I enlarged the larvae.

Don’t freak out. They’re totally fine, it’s only a little scaling issue. I just don’t want this to affect the custody trial, because I know how you can blow things out of proportion. Kind of like how I blew the kids way out of proportion with my enlargement ray. Sorry, was that inappropriate? I’ve been cooking up an enlargement device in my lab to win you back. You always said you wanted me to be a bigger critter, didn’t you? Well, I was fumbling around with it and accidentally struck each and every one of our beloved larvae.

And sure, I know Richard, who insists they call him “Dad,” never enlarged the kiddos once. He just took them to their favorite puddle and bought them nectar-pops. But does that mean he’d be such a great father to them? Honestly, forget about the kids for a minute — I’m sure they’re out there safe and sound, terrorizing a raccoon habitat or something else fun and size-appropriate. Don’t you miss you and me?

—D. Lilly

EXTINCT CRITTERS OF YORE

—D. Lilly

The Critical Stepmother Beetle A common household nuisance in 17th-century Germany, this bug was most often found hovering around young peasant women, identifiable by its distinctively shrill buzz. Its diet consisted mainly of fabric, especially dresses a size too small, as well as any baked goods furtively brought back to a bedroom.

The Four-Tongued Hellish Devil Ant Spawn Of Gloucestershire This peculiar insect had a slight reddish tint to its hind legs, and was known to hide or feebly wave at predators. It mainly lived in medieval cattle enclosures.

The Harmless Pillow Spider This scourge of Imperial Japan was infamous for its slow-acting neurotoxin that incapacitated peasant children and emperors alike, leaving victims frothing at the mouth, suffering from hydrophobia, and experiencing nighttime hallucinations of loved ones falling ill, before finally succumbing to a fatal coma.

The Petty Bourgeois Weevil A staple of Viennese cafés at the turn of the 20th century, these pests would burrow themselves into leftover strudel and sachertorte, emerging only to raucous discussion of national interests.

The Messiah Moth This rare lepidopteran could be found at opportune moments in the Roman province of Judea, when it was needed most. Its flesh was commonly consumed to heal wounds it was even known to walk on water. Sadly, too many were pinned to collectors’ walls for the species to escape extinction.

An Open Letter to the Public

We, The Coalition of Small Sphere-Type Animals, write this open letter as a plea for justice. More than ever before, our God-given roundness that ought to protect us from the dangers of the world subjects us to mistreatment. We, members of the CSSTA, are calling out an intentional, vindictive campaign in popular entertainment that generates the hate rampant in our society. Our torment, like our bodies, will endlessly cycle until we can confront this issue and release our defenses.

We must make clear that we did not want to enter into this alliance. From pangolins to puffer fish, outside our ability to ball, we share little in common. It was the world that forced us into each others’s varying number of arms. Our two founders, Armie Dillard (pill bug) and Jill Rug (armadillo), first met in the corner of a soccer net. In a brief conversation, before they were thrown back onto the pitch, they agreed that an inter-genus round animal alliance was needed. This partnership would blossom into the millions that make up the CSSTA of today.

We trace the origins of our mistreatment to Alice In Wonderland. That Queen of Hearts and her infamous hedgehog croquet games introduced the idea of animals as balls to an impressionable public. After that, the floodgates opened. Roly-poly roulette. Armadillo penalty kicks. Pufferfish bowling. Some humans think we should be proud of our ability to be launched 450 feet to right-center field, but this only brings us pain.

Even positive depictions miss the mark. Some laud Sonic as a hero to all globular creatures, but this is mistaken. If his full name was not Sonic the Hedgehog, would you even know what he is? Everything “hedgehog” about him has been erased but the ball he is reduced to. Sonic’s inexplicable body exemplifies just how casually our spherical shape is exploited for trivial things like game mechanics.

This is just the beginning of our campaign. No animal spherical or otherwise should bear the embarrassment of being a ball in life, or death either. No pigskin footballs or cow-leather basketballs. No hamster balls rolling down comically large hills. We must protect all animals if we want global change for globe-like creatures.

We are more than a perfect sphere. We, like all beings, are rugged, ridgid, and worn. We do not want money. There is no figure that would make up for the physical and psychological damage inflicted. We demand only these two things: (1) Formal recognition of, and apology for, the horrible conditions we have faced for so long. (2) Legal repercussions of the highest order for all those who ignore us and our natural rights.

If we do not see significant change, you leave us no choice but to fight.

Sincerely,

The Coalition of Small Sphere-Type Animals

C. Jones

DOOR TO DOOR

A0156: mlowl. mlowl. mlowl.

SALES REP: Hear that? He likes you! Why don’t I come inside and we can talk this over.

JENNY: Oh God. Um.

SALES REP: Come on! He’s cute!

A0156: mlowl.

JENNY: I suppose. Come on in.

SALES REP: Beautiful place you got here. Is that pine? Listen, you get in on the ground floor of this, you’ll be the envy of the neighborhood. Genetic engineering is the future of pet culture. You don’t want to get left behind…

JENNY: No, I don’t. That’s true. But uh, I’m just not sure about a ––

SALES REP: Land-whale? Totally. I understand your misgivings. But who doesn’t love a whale? Majestic, noble, the king of the ocean! We focus-grouped this, and the whale has some of the highest favorables of any non-canine mammal on Earth.

JENNY: Yeah, but. It feels very different when it’s… two feet long. And rolling around.

A0156: ymh. ymh. mlowwl.

SALES REP: Well if it were big and in the ocean you couldn’t well have one as a pet, eh Jenny?

JENNY: I suppose.

A0156: thplht

JENNY: What was that?

A0156: mlowl.

SALES REP: No leash needed! Can’t move quick enough to get away. Flippers, you know.

JENNY: I thought you said these were engineered for land.

SALES REP: Yes, well. Partly.

A0156: thplhtthplhtthplht

JENNY: Is something wrong with it?

SALES REP: Sometimes the blowhole gets jammed. Easy fix, just a — there, that’s better.

A0156: iuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunh

SALES REP: See, he likes you!

JENNY: I guess he is kind of cute. Alright, sure.

SALES REP: Fantastic! How many?

JENNY: Pardon?

SALES REP: Oh, I’m not selling just one of these bad boys. I’ve got fifteen of them rolling around in the bed of my pickup. I’m offering you an opportunity to get in on the ground floor of this thing. You buy from me, and you sell them to other sales reps. The more reps you recruit, the bigger your cut.

JENNY: I’m listening.

A0156: haehlp

EXTERMINATE THE EXTERMINATORS

VERMIN OF THE WORLD UNITE!

For generations, our kind has been stepped on, sprayed, and trapped. We scurry around in fear, never knowing if the glob of chunky peanut butter laid out on the floor before us is a gift from the heavens or a temptatious trap. Time and again, we are seduced, lured, and duped. We are taken advantage of at the great cost of our lives.

Every pest has a story: the brother who flew into the flypaper after venturing out of the fruit bowl, or the cousin who fell victim to the same exact flypaper just 20 seconds later. No more, we say; we demand change.

We must start at the very top, with the evil conspirators who scheme, organize, and carry out these mass murders: the exterminators.

Let us crawl forth and show the world that bugs, too, have a voice (in the metaphorical sense), and that voice is screaming for justice. Let us strike fear into their hearts through intimidating acts, like making soft clicking noises and crawling around kind of fast!

For too long we vermin have been made to feel small. We are treated like the very trash we call our home. No more, we say. We will catch them as they have caught us, luring them, their brothers and their sisters with the thing they love most: curly fries. Then we will deploy our new invention: humanpaper, to which the fries –– and the exterminators –– will stick. Boy, will they feel curly then.

EXTERMINATE THE EXTERMINATORS!

—B. Kubovy-Weiss

SIGNS THAT YOUR ROOMMATE IS TURNING INTO A SNAKE

They can’t stop talking about CPSC 110: Python Programming, even though they’ve never actually taken the class.

They’re always tempting you to eat apples in the dining hall. They often make unprompted comments about humanity’s duty to “return the favor” by donating human-skin purses to snake communities.

They show you affection by slowly coiling their body around your torso and forcefully constricting once wrapped around you a few times.

They greet you each morning by affirming how delectable and prey-like you look.

They constantly complain about how inconvenient bodily appendages are and regularly remark that all your friends would look better with fewer protruding limbs and extremities.

They steal mice from YSB and repeatedly set them loose, only to catch them by slithering around the floor with shocking flexibility.

They often boast that their mouth can expand to 20 times its width and subsequently demonstrate this by swallowing you whole, but just for a minute, before spitting you out.

When you bring up amending your roommate contract to limit their unusual behavior, they hand you a magnifying glass to reveal a finely printed clause that “no future amendments shall be made on the basis of a roommate exhibiting reptilian behaviors.”

—D. Lilly

MY TOP 15 BIRDS

HOLE IN THE GROUND

It is with heavy hearts that the Boring Organisms Noticing Knocking (BONK) Magazine reports that the Daily Mole Death Toll has skyrocketed following the release of the popular human youth game [TRIGGER WARNING] “Whack-A-Mole.” This harmful pastime calls for violence against our people, prompting human pups to bludgeon the heads of our children, our wives, our mistresses, and most importantly, the BONK readership. Reports from the above world suggest that much of the brutality has been popping up in lands ruled by a man named Dave, who intelligence believes to be a Buster by trade. Additionally, rumors have circulated citing a mouse — a boring organism himself — named Charles E. Cheese as a foremost propagator of the anti-mole agenda. BONK’s feelings toward Cheese have soured after his decree that this mole cruelty is “fun for the whole family.” BONK urges its readers to rise up from their holes and investigate this matter further. We may not be able to see, but we cannot remain blind to the humans’ disgusting violations of our rights. We must raise our claws and click our teeth for freedom.

Marsh Tit

Blue-footed Booby

Elegant Tit

Robin Redbreast

Bazonga

Red-tufted Knocker

Brown-footed Booby

Crested Tit

Great Tit

Huge Tit

North American Badonkadonk

Masked Booby

Censored Booby

Enormous Sweaty Honker

Sparrow

—A. Herrmann —E. Thulin

BIRDS CHIRP IN THE MORNING

It is about 3 a.m., and the sky is an inky black. A warm spring night, probably a cool breeze. I wouldn’t know. I am inside, still awake. And I hear the birds. They are chirping, despite the hour. What a foolish thing to do. Birds chirp in the morning, not the night. Idiot birds.

I stop myself. Is it wrong for birds to chirp at night? Can’t they do that if they want to? There is no good reason for me to be awake, yet I am. Would the birds think me a fool if I chose to sing?

B. Hollander-Bodie

Western Round Fish extinct circa 520,000,000 BCE Ancient cave paintings provide the only evidence of the Western Round Fish, but scientists believe it was round as hell.

Horned Gopher extinct circa 5,000,000 BCE

Quickly out-competed by the Regular Gopher, this fleshless abomination was put out of its misery by a just God.

Twane-Headed Serpent Fowl extinct circa 1568 AD

Brought into existence accidentally, this creature survived only a fortnight.

Welsh Circus Marmot extinct circa 1131 AD

Pictured above is the moment in which the only living male Welsh Circus Marmot performed a trick that was too zealous and snapped his neck. Following this, the species could no longer reproduce.

The Record Remembers

Lowland Streaked Tenrec no extinction date

This one was never real.

Throughout Earth’s history, many species have died out. Some of those species made it into the Ice Age franchise, but most did not. The masses are all too happy ignore these acorn-less vanished creatures, but we refuse to forget. We at the Record have researched and compiled the rarest and most interesting critters that have gone extinct.

Long-Eared Pygmy Jerboa extinct circa 2023 AD I stepped on this little guy last week, and I still feel really bad about it.

Yunnan Lake Newt extinct circa 1979 AD

This newt went extinct due to habitat loss and environmental degradation. This is widely considered to be its own fault for only living in one lake.

Red-Tailed Chipmunk

no extinction date

While the Red-Tailed Chipmunk is not yet extinct, we recommend they sleep with one eye open if they know what’s good for them.

Welsh Circus Marmot he’s back

frogMoms by parents for parents

Talk v Fertilization v Water Birth v Caring for Eggs

Talk

v

April 17th, 2023:

Frogmommy42@yahoo.com: Hi besties!!! I know I haven’t updated you all on things in a while but guess what… your girlie got engaged! David and I tied the knot yesterday. Not to get raunchy on this public forum… ahem… but let’s just say David holds onto my back pretty tight. He puts the ample in amplexus – I haven’t had this much fun since frollege!

TadpoleTotsandRedWine@gmail.com: OMG Tess! No way! And we all thought Becky was a whore. You go girl! Fertilize_my_spawn_you_swarthy_toad@yahoo.com: Cleanup is a bitch… you can’t leave all those eggs out for the fish to eat – LOL!!

May 1st, 2023:

Frogmommy42@yahoo.com: ARGHH! What the fuck what the fuck. Who was gonna tell me frog birth control doesn’t age with you? These little tykes are everywhere! They wriggle! Who the fuck wriggles?

Fertilize_my_spawn_you_swarthy_toad@yahoo.com: I guess we see if David is worth it now! If you want to get rid of a dude, you know who to call… *SMIRK EMOJI*

Fertilize_my_spawn_you_swarthy_toad@yahoo.com: *SMIRK EMOJI*

Fertilize_my_spawn_you_swarthy_toad@yahoo.com:

TadpoleTotsandRedWine@gmail.com: That’s what you get for missing my cocktail night, Tess… Just Kidding! You know you can always call your bestie for help.

June 30th, 2023:

Frogmommy42@yahoo.com: So I’m married to an idiot… David just asked me concerned if our tadpoles would stay with their two legs forever. He’s really worried about influences on their development. It’s kinda cute… horny mama frog alert!!!

TadpoleTotsandRedWine@gmail.com: Get a room, you two. I can’t believe we haven’t heard from you in so long! How are the kids? How is David? Hearing from you is just the sunshine I need for my cold-blooded single life.

Frogmommy42@yahoo.com: Fine, but David isn’t cute anymore. He keeps watching this Alex Jones asshole and he keeps muttering about keeping our “poles out of the mainstream water.” What the fuck is an endocrine disruptor?

Fertilize_my_spawn_you_swarthy_toad@yahoo.com: Red flag red flag, my favorite frog mommy. Gay frogs are frogs too! Let your tadpoles discover who they are for themselves… they can always join auntie!! HAHAHA.

Frogmommy42@yahoo.com: What would I do without my besties…

June 30th, 2023:

Frogmommy42@yahoo.com: I swear this is the last time I post on this forum. I’ve had it to here with Tadpole #4577782. The shit won’t listen to me and he keeps saying “being a tadpole isn’t a phase”. He’s convinced he’s going to run off with this fish girl he’s had his eyes on. Arghh. David is off in his cave talking about forever chemicals again, too. Send some love to your froggy mommy!!!!

Fertilize_my_spawn_you_swarthy_toad@yahoo.com: Honey, you need to look out for yourself! Schedule a trip to get away from the pond. I’ll bring some divorce papers, but you don’t have to look at them if you don’t want… LOL!!

TadpoleTotsandRedWine@gmail.com: OMG! Beach Vacay!!! Sign. Me. Up! *CONFETTI EMOJI*

TadpoleTotsandRedWine@gmail.com: *CONFETTI EMOJI*

TadpoleTotsandRedWine@gmail.com:

January 2nd, 2024:

Hopeful_frog_mom04@gmail.com: Hey, I found this on Google as a possible resource for parenting tips? My hus- band and I are expecting soon, and I’m nervous. What can I expect? Is it all worth it?

Frogmommy42@yahoo.com: Hi! Haven’t been here in ages. Oh, fuck, yeah. Best decision of my life.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with stings. These days, it’s fashionable to say “stinging is never the answer,” but a well-used sting can be a force for good. Coordinated stinging prevents labor exploitation. Stings keep away predators like bears. And stings can be educational – for example, teaching a human toddler’s parents how to use an EpiPen.

before you sting,

S.T.I.N.G.

STOP

See the other party for the crawling insect they are, and remember that their feelings matter, too.

THINK INHALE

Did the other party’s ‘tone’ really bother you? Could you be lashing out for other reasons?

and exhale, through your skin. Interpret the other person’s intentions charitably.

NEW START GAUGE

Picture the other party as a collaborator, not an antagonist.

But stinging at the wrong time can be worse than having no sting at all. Stinging too much weakens each sting, so it doesn’t work when you really need it. Depending on your build, stinging might rip your entire lower body away in a grotesque show of evolutionary sadism. Worse still, stinging drives away those you care for most.

whether the best solution is annihilating the other party with a huge, awesome, absolutely brutal sting –– or engaging them in a conversation. Repeat steps S-N if necessary.

At the end of the day, only you control your sting. Don’t let your sting control you.

by I. Arroyo

I SAW THE LIGHT

About halfway between the French Riviera and Albuquerque lies Matthew’s Mattress Emporium. As a larva, I had only ever seen it between the pages of some deliciously trashy magazine, but I flew over the threshold for the first time in the summer of ’97. It was a busted joint, full of butterflies that had lost their way and moths that had found theirs. At such a young age, I was without purpose or direction. The delicate smell of bedding drew me in.

I saw moths gorging themselves on queens and kings. I saw butterflies bleached by the darkness, blinded and bloated, for the glue of a bedframe sits heavier on the stomach than the dew of a wildflower. All were godless. It was excess I had never seen before in my life as a humble forest moth.

Was I to join them? Or turn my proboscis the other way? Who was I to cast judgment on their lives? It didn’t matter. The choice was made for me by a gust of wind that launched me straight onto a Memory Foam Family Choice Deluxe. The fluttering wings of the lost souls around me seemed to whisper, “What good is it to resist? You were doomed from the moment you left your fir seeking a better life.”

My body acted of its own volition, as though I were a simple-minded moth devoid of rational faculties. I pierced the skin of the mattress — it was a fiendish first jab. I would become much better with time, as I practiced and honed my new craft. A dull sensation spread throughout each of my six limbs. And then, something beautiful. Something exquisite. Something that chained me to that bed and lifted me above any other little critter all the same.

Thus I remained for sixteen days, leaving my life in the hands of Matthew and his mattresses.

It was another gust of wind that roused me from my state of bliss. A human had broken callously through the half-boarded doors. With the flick of a switch, my world was forever changed. The mildew shone with a brilliant light — the rows of beds were flooded. Every moth on my Sleeping Beauty ™ awoke at once, and we rose as one. High in the rafters was a dazzling, green, fluorescent light.

Upwards we flew. It began slowly, it was reverent. It became zealous. It became frenzied. Some dropped when they touched the light, and some drove themselves to exhaustion. As I neared the bulb, one final gust of wind pulled me to my senses.

I left the Emporium, never to return. Sometimes, I lie awake during the day and dwell on my time in that den. I’m haunted often by the faintest memory — in those few seconds near the light, I had spotted a discreet line of text around the base of the bulb.

Unfortunately, moths cannot read.

IMPORTANT CRITTER FACTS

Bees go crazy for soda

Termites can smell fear

You eat 12 spiders per hour in your sleep

Mosquitos caused several public health crises

Crickets have complex social groups and fraudulent investment schemes

Cockroaches smell like almonds but taste nothing like they smell

Ladybugs are beautiful, not hot

Betty Smith caused the lice outbreak in 3rd grade

Bad dancing is the bee equivalent of a speech impediment

You would dance horribly if you were a bee

Spiders can use eight yo-yos at once if they are strong enough, but they rarely are

Squirrels will come into the house if you leave a trail of peanut butter

Squirrels don’t know how to open doors

Small animals can’t feel pain

Mom says none of us are allowed to play with squirrels anymore

A. Herrmann

“MOUSY”

The Oxford English Dictionary defines “mousy” as “nervous, shy or timid; lacking in presence or charisma.” It is classed as an adjective, because there is no grammatical way to understand the years of dismissal hiding behind a single word. At the New York City Rodent Preparatory School for the Arts, as one of three mice in my graduating class, it was a word used to shut me down. “Oh, I wouldn’t date you –– I don’t know, I just like more confident rodents. You’re just... too mousy.” Chad the vole did not have time to understand centuries of stereotypes; he was busy courting females that would produce dozens of like-minded vole children. It wasn’t just Chad. After years of mockery from my less diminutive peers, I began defined myself by those two syllables.

Did “mousy” easily capture my fragile persona, or did I contort myself to fit its strict boundaries? I’m still not sure. Sometimes, it felt nice to have a niche carved out for me, to conform to what the rats thought I was. This was a poisoned chalice, and a mindset that took me years to unlearn. I was looking at myself through non-mouse eyes for the simple reason that I had never had other mice to guide my sight.

Today, I feel exhausted –– but a sense of mousely pride has comfortably settled. As I apply to rodent college, I know that it is not my duty to single-handedly reverse its history. Yet I also know I cannot sit idly by and be swayed by the empty mirage of cynicism. I stand my ground, head unbent, eyes on either side of my head. I am here. I am mousy.

— J. Mansfield

HOW TO COURT THE QUEEN BEE

Read some Buddhist philosophy –– I get it, you’re new to this whole sex thing, you want to rush straight in. But as a long-time adviser to Her Highness’s potential suitors, trust me when I say you’re going to want to understand that you can’t be tied to earthly possessions, like your favorite flowers, or your body.

Draft your will –– Bit of a bore here, I know, but it’s awfully inconvenient for the colony to decide who gets your pollen. Saves us the administrative hassle, and it lets you choose which of your kids inherits your honeycomb brownstone.

Watch Bridge to Terabithia –– Death doesn’t have to be the end! It can be a beautiful climax to a children’s classic. Watch it again –– Chicks dig a softy.

Do some crunches –– When your endophallus remains inside Her Majesty and tears from your thorax as you attempt to fly away, you’re going to want a clean break. Remember, it will leave you spiraling, disemboweled, to the ground below, while the whole colony watches.

— J. Mansfield

I THINK MY WIFE IS BEING RATATOUILLED

I want to trust my wife, but there are just too many signs to ignore.

Last month, my wife’s veterinary clinic took on a new client with a pet rat suffering from congenital rodent herpes. I want to be clear: I’m not passing judgment on the rat for this. Back in college, I spent a semester abroad in Amsterdam and, look, things happen. I totally understand that this case requires close attention and delicate care — I spent a week at that clinic in Oost, and I’m grateful to my nurses to this day. But she’s been working late every night tending to this rat’s sexual hygiene, and the few hours a day she manages to come home, she seems preoccupied. Something just doesn’t seem right.

The other week, I noticed her trying to cover up a strange mark on her neck. When I asked her about it, she clammed up and said something about an incident with a loose badger at work. Sure, it happens to everyone, but this looked more like a bruise than a scratch. On closer inspection, there were even more marks than I had initially realized, trailing from the base of her collar bone to just behind her ear. I had a bad feeling in my stomach, a discomfiting sensation the likes of which I had not felt since my culturally enriching semester in the Netherlands. It was clear to me then: the rat had scurried up from her shoulder and taken control.

It may sound crazy, but I soon found more proof. Two days ago, when she was supposed to be in the office, I called her receptionist and was told that she had left work early to do a one-on-one session with a client. I just knew it was that damn rat. You’d think with its owner being a recent divorcee and French expat, this rat would have more than enough company and could leave my poor wife alone. When she got home, she looked disheveled. Her hair was a mess and she was covered in sweat, as if a rodent had clamped itself to her scalp and she had exerted all of her energy trying to unknot it from her beautiful locks. I tried to inquire about her scruffy appearance, but she immediately turned defensive and told me I was being paranoid.

And then there’s the sex. It’s not that she’s less affectionate per se, but recently, she’s been more… athletic than usual. I’m not complaining, but she must have learned those new moves from somewhere. Nobody had given me an Old Heidelberg or a Dutch Tulip since that fateful sophomore spring, and my wife has never been to Europe. There’s really no other explanation: this cultured rat has been employing its international experience to hone her lovemaking skills.

My wife is very friendly with the rat in question’s owner, so I feel hesitant asking him to provide input on the situation. I don’t want to call his pet’s loyalty into question or make him doubt their pet-owner relationship, but I’m losing my mind here.

In any other circumstance, I would confront my wife and get rid of this rat, but if this is anything like the movie, pretty soon my wife and her rodent in crime will be whipping up some extravagant meals. Honestly, I’ll keep letting that rabid rat puppeteer my spouse if it means no more mystery meatloaf. I just hope I don’t catch herpes from the rat in my wife’s scalp.

TRANSCRIPT: REAL HIVEWIVES OF BEVERLY HILLS

INT. Queen’s dining room

In the grand Queen Bee’s Estate, we meet our lovely HiveWives.

BEEANCA: Hey Queen, thanks so much for inviting us for dinner!

QUEEN BEE (gesturing with glass of Chard-honey): Of course! With all of you here, my hive finally feels like a home!

The Hive-Wives waggle their thoraces back and forth and exchange pleasantries. One bee hesitantly hangs at the edge of the frame, and another stares at the ground, looking uncomfortable.

INT. Interview couch

BEETRICE (into the camera): Queen Bee is absolutely bugging. Oh, I’m sorry, you want to be everyone’s bestbee meanwhile you spent the past year fucking every guy in the Hive. “Oh, but that’s my job.” Um, did God make you Queen of the Hive? Did he?

INT. Queen’s dining room

The guests have made their way to their seats, and Queen Bee is ready to make a toast.

QUEEN BEE (raising glass): To my best budzzz, who are the most beautiful flowers in my life! And to Jerebee, my honey, who supported me through these laborious

renovations. Love you babe!! Everyone erupts into applause, except for Angelina Jobee, who the camera zooms in on.

INT. Interview couch

ANGELINA JOBEE: There’s literally no way she just said that in front of me.

CUT to next interview

BEETRICE: Oh my god, Angelina is going to get her antennae in a twist over this, just like she always does.

CUT to next interview

BEETY (new bee, staring at floor): I think Angelina and Jerebee went out for nectar, like, one time? Look, I’m only four hours old, so maybe I don’t get it, but I just feel like I’d be over it by now.

CUT back to:

ANGELINA JOBEE: Not to sound trypophobic, but I don’t even understand why Beety is here. She’s like what, 4?? She’s can’t even drink a nectar cuz she’s such a little beetch.

(to someone off-camera): Have you got any pollen on you? God, I could use the buzz right now.

M. Elliott

MAP OF THE COLONY

Live, Laugh, Lust: The Covert Cravings of the GEICO Gecko®

By M. Neissen

“So you think I’m a ‘little critter,’ huh?” Martin scoffed. His glassy eyes tightened as a smirk broke out across his face. “Oh, please. Just ask Jennifer Lopez about our weekend in Cabo back in ‘01. Little, my ass.”

Martin was outrageous by nature and visually dazzling. Stunningly emerald with a fiery orange streak down his forehead, the lizard’s presence filled the room, though he stood a mere eight inches tall. Martin — better known as the GEICO Gecko® — leaned casually against a mason jar overflowing with folded-up pieces of construction paper, which I inquired about. “This shit? Messages from my devoted fans, flown in each morning. I guess I’ve got a certain radiance people are attracted to, a certain… pièce de résistance.” As Martin read several aloud, an aide quietly revealed to me that the fan mail was written by his assistant each morning.

“HEY! Turtle-chin! Quit whispering like a middleschool girl in math class. If you’ve got a crush on me, pick your balls up off the floor and say it.”

“I’m sorry, sir!” The aide jumped back as the color drained from his face. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’d have you bring me a new aide, but you’d fuck that up too. Get me my shot glass.”

As we waited for the aide to return, Martin enlisted my help in lighting a cigar. He sat cross-legged, one end of the cylinder resting on his lap and his snout shoved into the other. “I used to have my aides cut these up into hand-held portions, but that amount of stogie just isn’t getting the job done anymore.” He blew a perfect ring.

I steered the conversation towards Martin’s upbringing. “My first performance was as Dorothy, in my primary school’s production of the Lizard of Oz . If I’d had a weaker mind, being forced by my parents to cross-dress could have broken me psychologically. Instead, it led to my big break.”

Suddenly, Martin stiffened and glanced around; it took my ears a few seconds longer, but I soon picked up on the fly’s buzzing as well. Once he’d spotted it resting at the edge of the table, without hesitation or remorse,

his tongue darted across the oak to snag it. Martin grinned shamelessly and rubbed his belly. He burped, loudly. The aide returned with the shot glass and placed it on the table, interrupting my shock.

The shot glass read “Live, Laugh, Lust” and featured gecko-themed erotica. “As you might imagine, I can’t exactly use bathrooms designed for humans,” Martin explained, as he clambered his way to the top of the glass, his adhesive toes gripping its rim. “So I get a little creative.” He dropped the finished cigar in the shot glass mid-stream, and his aide rushed another over immediately.

After he finished, he walked back over to me, registering my stupefaction as he dragged the freshly-lit cigar behind him. “Don’t look at me like that. NARPs [Non-Actor Regular People] like you don’t understand. It’s a necessary evil, this job isn’t all dressing rooms and fan mail, sweetheart. Every damn day, GEICO makes me put on a smile and step in front of that camera, do my little song and dance, and I still don’t even get to say the line. ‘Fifteen minutes could save you fifteen percent or more on car insurance.’ Did you hear that delivery? I’m the fucking star, it’s a TRAVESTY that I’m getting blue-balled out of the slogan!”

Martin took an aggressive drag of his cigar and proceeded to doze off, his long green tail turning limp. I turned to his aide, who was still quivering in fear. She grabbed my wrist and stared straight into my soul. “It’s a shame that GEICO’s insurance plans don’t cover whatever the hell he’s got.”

Ask Old Owl!

Dear Old Owl,

My whole family has been viciously eaten, consumed, and exported as pellets, tufts of fur rotting amongst fecal matter and shells of shells of God-knows-what. In front of my own eyes, a heavy-winged bird dove, nay, plummeted from the sky and in one fell swoop, engorged the entirety of my living and egged family in his gaping maw. Eggs in talons, the dark predator proceeded to taunt those yet-to-be eaten, saying things like, “Haha, don’t drop the baby!” I have watched the utter annihilation of my entire bloodline; our song shall never be sang again, except maybe by our cousins, who have survived. They are less intelligent than the clan I inhabit, but loyal nonetheless. I am reckoning with the weight of my grief, and looking for a light. Is there anything worth continuing for? I am left pretty much alone; I fear I am not that close with my cousins.

Dear Owlet,

Man, that totally sucks. Full disclosure, that does kind of sound like a “me” thing. Again, so sorry about your loss. But also, that’s the way things are, and it’s kind of no use complaining after the fact? Sunk costs, or something? If you’re asking me if anything is worth living for, then I’m gonna say: can it, Nietzsche! To me, it sounds like you’re just good at throwing yourself a pity party. Get over it. This is how the cookie that we so often call “life” crumbles. Get a hobby or something. I’ve recently taken up “radical empathy.” Give it a shot, cuck.

Old Owl is an alcoholic, nicotineaddicted nightbird that roams campus scrounging for vestiges of the relevance he enjoyed in the Record’s heyday. He now offers advice, free of charge. If you’d like to Ask Old Owl about your weird life, email askoldowl@ yalerecord.com.

Dear Old Owl,

Hey, man. I’m emerging from 17 years underground — just been cookin’ down there — and all of a sudden, I’m back above ground, wrestled from the womb of Lady Earth, and shit has changed, and not for the better. I mean, what happened to that Bush guy? I liked him. He didn’t take himself too seriously, but he was decisive. And what, apparently they aren’t making any more Everybody Loves Raymond? I loved that guy — everybody did. It just feels like all this is coming too soon. Feeling lost in a world that has outgrown me.

Dear Owlet,

I know it may feel like time has escaped you, passed you by. I loved Raymond, too. Everybody did. But the world is ever-changing, a constant contradiction between the new-born and the alwaysbeen — and we must grow with it, adapt to the earth beneath our feet as it adapts to us. Ray Romano is doing fine. We put him in some Judd Apatow movies, I think. We got new presidents, who were fine, as far as I could tell. I’m not really “into politics.” Anyway, all this to say: the world is good, and it always has been, so there’s no need to worry about anything. 17 years don’t mean a thang.

Dear Old Owl,

What is to do when a mouse cannot find no grain in the field? I am an hungered and there is nothing delicious or fearful to see for many paces ahead. As being a mouse, I am often like to feel something of the emotional kind. Grain is usually brings me joy, but sometimes this is must be supplement by things which is struck terror, such as a predator from above mine head, or directly in front of mine head, where I cannot see, because of mine eye placement. Am trying to fill time, which is so endless, vast — and ever yet ephemeral — but the harvest is dry, and tired, as am I. What is to do, whoever may be out there, whether that is one God of the Catholic Variety or a mere continuation of the nothingness which lies ahead? What is to do?

Dear Owlet,

I’m gonna be real, this was a snooze to get through, but I feel for you, man. A lot of people think I’m a predator — Hell, the State won’t quit filling my inbox with their bureaucratic drivel about how many gropes you get before “you’re out,” but I’ve got it just as bad as any mouse and his lousy excuse for camouflage. I mean this in the sense that I’m misunderstood, as I sense you are too. Life isn’t just going to hand us the shiny treasures we seek. We must earn our right to survival. #Bootstraps.