A Thorough and Distasteful Dissection of Fictional Suburban Wildlife

There was little for a walrus to do on a Monday afternoon, noted the walrus. It was of course not the sort of sentiment that would be noted by anyone other than a walrus because, naturally, none other than walruses are concerned with such trivial matters as walrus boredom.

The walrus shuffled along by the recreational ground and watched the ants dance upon the path.

“There’s ever so little to do

as a Walrus in the afternoon,

so I shall talk to you

for want of anything better to do.” Rhymed the walrus to a passing crow.

“Drunkard” Cursed the crow, flying back to his suburban nest. He brought to his wife and chicks a roasting joint of worm for dinner before excusing himself saying he had to go and pick up more shopping. He flew to a discreet rendezvous in gropecunt lane, atop a lamp post with Robin – a disreputable, flighty little thing. After an exchange of twigs and shiny things they engaged in the sinful act. Married with two children suburban crow carried on to his business.

Robin sat upon the lamp post waiting for more custom.

Whilst she did this, everything carried on. The cars, the walrus, the crow’s familial charade of happiness, the breeze and the ants and the afternoon progressed. Time waits for no walrus nor crow.

Field Scenes

Some geese sat in a field with an abandoned burger van and a tyre. This was a world unto itself. Not since the addition of the large van emblazoned with garish, yet now fading letters, had anything troubled the field, or its geese or for that matter the tyre. As far as the geese were concerned, the tyre was a loner, it had long ago rolled for the last time and now wallowed in rubbery self-pity. They didn’t bother the tyre very much. Yet the burger van was an exciting newcomer with its bright colours and intriguing hatch it proved an interesting companion. It would sit in the field, shining with ethereal radiance (or shining with grease – something which the geese barely understood). The geese entertained themselves by doing laps of the burger van. The tyre appeared notably saddened by this newcomer to the field.

The tyre had never really expressly conveyed any warmth for his companions, but had liked to think of them as beings in the same boat as he was. He found himself alienated from their lapping game. Of course it wasn’t his fault that he was without an axle or propulsion – and being on his side, not in the best position for rolling anyway. Yet this still felt like a shortcoming on his behalf.

The tyre sat grieving amongst the lengthening grass, which threatened to, in a few months, cover him entirely. He wept for the geese who had a new companion and for all the roads he would never roll upon.

A solitary tear oozed between his grooves – or was it dew. I could hardly tell the difference as my train rolled by.

Equine Rivalry

Mr Everett sat seething in his bed-sit. His chair was gently crumbling beneath 10 years of his large donkey weight. It had suffered in silence for a long time, but now saw fit to creak every time Everett placed his behind upon it. From his chair Everett could see only discarded cigarette packets, crumbs and beer cans and the odd burnt out joint. It was remarkable he could see at all given the state of his eyes which were adorned with bags which were like vast expanses of ash. He sighed and then wheezed with the effort of sighing. Beyond the wreckage of a long life of consumerism Everett could see his television which was showing scenes of a live action adaptation of ‘My Little Pony’ intermittently between bursts of static.

“Fucking pony cunts!” Yelled Everett before coughing at the exertion of shouting.

“Why…the fuck…should they be so fucking highly respected when…when…when fine fucking folk like myself are left to traipse Blackpool beach with fucking kids on our back?!” Everett raved at no one.

His neighbours were very much aware of his pony prejudice. This stemmed from what he saw as false stereotyping of equine animals – ponies are cute and lovable, donkeys are bumbling fools. Everett was convinced that this unfair image was perpetuated in pop culture even by programmes such as Winnie the Pooh in which Eeyore was a depressed loner.

The truth was, either way, the ponies were successful and Everett, having punished himself with toxins for years, was unfit even for the beaches of Blackpool.

The sun gazed through the crack in the curtains and illuminated another puff of cigarette smoke. The sun sighed and went to bed.