February 27, 2008

Parakeets-n-Death (Letter Forwarded to Pinky from a Bereaved Miss Williams)

February 21, 2008

Dear Miss Williams,

We are saddened (as we are sure you are, too) at the tragic loss of our longtime mammal keeper Jaime Von Busselstieffer on Valentine’s Day. You probably want to know more specific details about her early death, but the lawyers here at the zoo, have ask us not to relay any information other than the fact that Jaime was a hapless victim of interspecies aggression involving parakeets and tapirs. We can, however, report that the tapir is recovering nicely and will soon have most of his fur back.

Jaime, unbeknownst to us, had no family and had been secretly living in the hay loft in the elephant house. She left the zoo every day with the other keepers, but apparently returned each night to the zoo. We found her complete 37 year subscription to National Geographic, her uniforms, and a jar of artichoke hearts in her makeshift hay cave. In the June 1972 issue of National Geographic, we discovered a handwritten last will and testament where she left this zoo jacket to you. While it is technically zoo property, we felt that (under the circumstances) the rules should be bent a bit. We would also like to invite you to a special candlelight memorial service tomorrow evening honoring Jaime and the 730 dead parakeets that the poor tapir bravely fought off until Jaime arrived to break up the disturbance. The remaining 6,920 parakeets are being sent to renowned animal trainer Wanda Pillars for retraining. We expect no similar incidents in the future and are rethinking the need to house over 7,000 parakeets at our facility.

H.J. “Happy” Brown
Falls City Zoo
Falls City, Iowa

In 1953 Uncle Poot Received Oklahoma's First Federal Grant to Grow Plastic Trash Can Liners

February 26, 2008

58 Half Truths About You-Know-Who

Never comes home before 3 AM
Always sewed her own panties
Got her mouth washed out with soap
Kicked the mailman
Posed for nudie photos
Hates wearing dresses
Grew up to be a dope fiend
Is a chronic liar
Eats bugs
Is cross-eyed
Secretly despises Mamie Eisenhower
Contracted impetigo
Is ashamed of her her left thigh
Has a glass eye
Killed her grandmother
Often licks the floor
Lost both her feet to a shark attack
Is often covered in flies
Lost all her teeth by the age of 23
Painted her cat turquoise
Draws faces on her underwear
Frankly, doesn’t believe in Jesus
Keeps scabs in a jar
Wipes boogers on the bedpost
Fainted on a Milan fashion runway
Had internal parasites
Had two left feet
Cusses like a sailor
Never conquered her demons
Was a cutter
Has a small, fleshy tail
Has an olive fetish
Put a peanut way up her nose
Enjoys her epileptic fits
Rattles everyone’s nerves
Dreams of becoming a prostitute
Nibbles on cardboard
Farts in church
Put ketchup on dolls
Angered the gods
Harbored evil thoughts
Has nightmares about knives
Stabbed her own hand
Smokes French cigarettes
Carries a doily everywhere she goes
Puts lipstick on strangers' puppies
Is a whore for attention
Ties up kittens
Collects snail shells
Took candy from strangers
Masturbated to Dean Martin LP’s
Dyes the water in her toilet purple
Bad-mouths Santa
Cut her fingertip off slicing carrots
Pulled the legs off of spiders
Sniffs most everything

February 23, 2008

Nadine is Impressionable

Pinky loaned Nadine his copy of Sunset Boulevard, and she has been walking around with her head titled back and her hand gripped in a claw for two weeks now.

Uncle Poot and Aunt Tizby

February 21, 2008

Lyrics to "Nadine"

Who's that girl walkin' down tha street,
half shaved head and dirty little feet,
what's that book tucked under her wing,
is it tha bible or Chomsky's Syntactic Structures,
That's Nadine,
That's Nadine,
That's Nadine.

Chart Topper from 1964 (Pinky was 6)

February 19, 2008

Miss Love Logic

"Well, never-you-mind," she exclaimed. "It had dog shit on it, anyway!"

Has Pinky Told You About His Dog, Sharky?

Sharky is a hairless chinese crested with skin problems. Pinky often takes him along on spa day and has a facial done on his back. Here is a photo of his torso before a treatment.

The Right Eye of God

Don't Tell Granny D, But...

Pinky Diablo's biracial!

February 14, 2008


Pinky was correct in predicting a dreadful Valentine's Day. He lost his glasses in the lemur moat at the zoo, and Nadine gave him a Valentine (which happened to be a heart shaped boulder weighing over 3700lbs).

Mutually Beneficial

Only Pinky could love a dead snail. Only a dead snail could love Pinky. The world is in perfect harmony.

February 13, 2008

Origami for Losers

Nadine's Bigamous Past

County records show Nadine married Rodger Litmore (left) on July 19, 1969. She married Bucky Kintrell (right) on July 20, 1969. Roger and Bucky are shown here on July 21 after they discovered they were married to the same woman. Both marriages were annulled, and Nadine went on to marry 23 more times.

Pinky's Not Expecting a Happy Valentine's Day

February 9, 2008

What You Don't Want to Hear Over the Zoo Radio:

"The aardvark still has diarrhea."

What do Pinky D and Paul Newman have in Common?

Buddhist Simplicity

Pinky has always been surrounded by simple things. The week after he was born, he was carried home by Granny D in this unpretentious carriage covered in pink carnations and gladioli. Every year since, to honor the birth of modest little Pinky D, Granny D has been pulled through the streets on this humble float to commemorate that oh-so-joyous day of Pinky's birth. (She still has his dried umbilical cord in a jar by her bedside--it looks like a vanilla bean.)

February 8, 2008

Pinky and His Psychic Twin, Lance Ferngate

The Zoo Honors Pinky

Even though Pinky has only been at the zoo for five months, his heroic nature and fine chiseled features have been captured in marble. Titled "Pinky Rescues a Drunken Gerenuk", this sculpture has been placed between the restroom and the necropsy lab.

February 7, 2008

Pinky Sees EVERY Sign as a Sign from God

You Won't Believe the Final Scene of Pinky's Opera

Delicious Fried Pies

If you think the idea of cutting your husband up into small pieces and serving him to unwitting guests at Thanksgiving dinner is disturbing, read no further. Otherwise meet Doradell. Doradell prided herself on her lovely rolled out pie crust and the use of the freshest, sweetest fruits for her delicious fried pies. She was fond of her own pies and always made a few extra for the cook. Consequently, she was rather plump and perspired constantly in the warm, yeasty kitchen. Sometimes while she let her crust dough set, she stepped out of her loose fitting, nude colored slip and took a quick shower. Freshly powdered and looking like rising bread dough, she returned to the kitchen to finish off the pies. Her thick, strong fingers worked quickly to fill the rounds of flattened dough with a dollop of filling, then gingerly folded and pinched the edges into a pretty ruffled seam. On days when she made her cherry pies, she painted her fingernails a fiery crimson. It made her smile to see those red nails dipping into the deep red fruity. Doradell would close her eyes and lick the cherry red mixture off her fingers, letting her tongue feel the slick red surface of her polished nails. Of course, she always washed her hands afterwards. She kept an impeccably clean kitchen to showcase her fried pies.

To Doradell there was nothing else in the whole wide world except fried pies. And pie related errands. And Beryl. Big, fat, greasy Beryl. And Beryl loved those pies! He also loved beer, fried chicken, and smutty magazines. He hated baths and Doradell. To everyone else, Doradell seemed resigned to Beryl’s unthoughtful, smelly, and downright cruel habits. He always complained about the pies with filling dripping off his unshaven, piggish chin, “If you ever learn to cook, I might buy you a new dress!” He would wipe his greasy hands on his once white Fruit of the Loom undershirt.

At Thanksgiving dinner Doradell surprised the crowd with a new meat pie filling. She proudly minced in on new high heeled pumps and sported a fashionably cut dress with tiny cherry clusters printed all over. She was carrying a white china platter of huge fried half-moon shaped fried pies. Everyone was equally surprised that Beryl was gone. Doradell ate meat pie after meat pie and almost forgot to serve the turkey, who, if he were alive, would have been mad that he had to play second fiddle to the popular meat pies. She licked every bit of the crumbs off her blood red nails and proclaimed the secret to such flaky crust was in the lard. She tentatively whispered, "ass" under her breath and felt a flood of freedom course through her rotund body.

I know you are thinking of the Butcher of Fleet Street and Sweeney Todd and the owner of the Barbeque Hamlet in Springtown. But this is a different story. There are no more murders. No more butchering bodies in the green tiled kitchen. No more bathtubs of blood or buckets of gore. There is only sadness.

Outwardly, Doradell looked better than everyone could remember. On her pie errands, she wore new fruit patterned dresses that made her look fresh and young. Her pies were as delicious as ever. And Beryl stayed gone! She even took to matching every pie filling with a new Sally Sweet nail color. Peach Pie filling day was Sunrise Delite. Coconut filling was Frosty Morn. Elderberry was Midnite Dreamz. But inwardly, Doradell felt she could never get clean. Beryl’s filthy ghost seemed to haunt her every thought. Stirring the stewing fruits, she could see through the steam his pudgy chin dripping with strawberries. Cleaning out the kitchen cabinets she would find one of the smutty magazines Beryl had probably hidden when she came home early and surprised him pie-handed. Secretly burning his stained undershirts in the backyard, she would catch a memory of his sickening BO. She couldn’t escape him. When he got too near for too long, she would scrub her white skin until it peeled like a cranberry popping open in simmering sugar syrup. When she used the Sally Sweet nail polish remover, she wiped both her nails and her fingertips, trying to erase the memory fried into her mind of cutting him open with the kitchen knife. However, her daydream nightmares, instead of entrails and blood, she saw piles of filthy underwear and magazine clippings of big breasted women spill from his opened gut.

She fried more pies. She scrubbed Beryl’s degradation off of her only to have it settle back on her. She filled her empty life with fruit filling, but the hole in her soul was bottomless. When Beryl was around, maybe he was bloated and sticky enough to have clogged it like a wet soapy hairball in the shower. But now her never-ending hole drained all the life from poor Doradell. She could think of only one solution. She made a plan.

The night before her plan was to be executed, she ever so carefully painted her nails with two coats of cherry red. Her hands looked perfect, like kneaded dough with ruby colored raisins. The next morning she scrubbed and powdered herself and her pastry board. Effortlessly she rolled out eight perfect circles of dough and carefully centered a mound of cherry filling on each. With a clean mind and clean fingers, she pressed the ruffled seams. The pies lay swelling and white on the floured board. Doradell thought of little chubby babies diapered and waiting for burping.

She lit the gas jets under the two black iron skillets full of clean, white shortening. The cool icebergs of white fat slowly melted into a clear black sea of popping hot grease. Doradell carefully let each baby slide under the blanket of the rolling ocean and watched as they sizzled, sank, then rose to the surface browning and expanding. When they were almost perfectly fried, Doradell washed her hands in the cold good water from the tap and dried them thoroughly on a clean white dish towel. Then without expression plunged her thumb and forefinger into the pan.

The skin around her nails separated from the layer beneath, but Doradell took no notice. She fished around and plucked a pie from the bubbling skillet. She bit into the lava hot crust, the burning filling searing her tongue. She closed her eyes and imagined the cherry magma, red and glowing, as it traveled down her throat into the hole in her soul. She imagined a trickle of orange hot light flowing miles down her esophagus until it finally reached the bottom. Opening her eyes, she saw the remaining pies, now dancing black-brown in the smoking pans. Hungrily, she grasped a skillet handle with her hands, fusing the skin onto the black iron. She lifted the pan to her lips and began to drink the liquid fire. Hotter and redder. Now whiter. Now blinding. It filled her throat—her soul pit—with sensation. CHERRY. LOVE. BLISS. The second skillet burst into flames. Kitchen.

Pies. Doradell. Beryl’s ghost. House. All afire. Flaking, charred lips grimacing either from the force of the flames shooting from her throat or the satisfaction of a searing, blackened, cherry filling.

Just Who are Them Cyber-Stalkin' Gilmer-Metcalves?

In the Footsteps of Greatness

Pinky has much in common with William Holman Hunt. Hunt went to the Jerusalem and bought a goat, a camel skeleton and and ibex skull to create this masterpiece. The goat died, so he purchased another one. Pinky went to Bardwell and bought a hamburger and a pack of Camels before creating one of his masterpieces. (This sounds like a song by the Gilmer-Metcalves--are they still together?)

Nadine is Full of Dirty Little Secrets

In 1942, she was Erath county's Aluminum Shavings Queen. When Pinky confronted her with this photo she simply shrugged and said, "These days, truth is hard to come by."

February 5, 2008

New Employees at Diablo Inc.

The offshore feline call center has been closed down due to employee apathy. Pea hens have been hired temporarily to take care of office business and to make Pinky's coffee.

Pinky Often Dreams of People Carrying Bags of Things

Pinky Dreamed That Miss Love and Her Cows Ran Away and Joined a Circus

SIgn on Truck

Pinky read this sign on a semi yesterday:
Pinky thought, "That ain't no big deal--Diablo Inc. was founded on the blindness of a visionary."