Furry worry
It occurred to me while driving home tonight that I didn't know what the word 'furry' meant five years ago. Today, I know too much. Far too much. But not long ago my mind was in a state of naive bliss concerning that entire subculture, so much so that when I worked at Arby's and had the idea of cartooning my co-workers, I considered drawing them all as animals. I thought of it from the viewpoint of animals being easier to draw and more 'cartoony'. Little did I know I had flirted with danger and moral peril. I thought I was mimicking Disney. I had no name for the creations. I thought of an animal that suited each personality and went that way. A little later when I started writing and described a sentient mammalian race I'd developed, a friend asked, 'Oh, you've got furries?' I shrugged and said, 'I guess so. They look a bit like an otter so they have fur.' That was as far as my understanding went. No squick because I had no reason to think I should be squicked.
Then I because active online.
And the clouds parted.
And,lo, did the veil of ignorance fall from mine eyes! The earth was split asunder and from the rent ground rose a foul stench like to egg white stuck to a dog's coat and I did tremble and bow before God, saying 'Lord, spare me this evil! I brush mine teeth daily! Why art thou--by Lucifer's sexy (but corrupt, yes horribly corrupt!) arse are those human knockers on that fox? Why show me this? Why? No I don't want to know what 'yiffing' means!
Eat from the Tree of Knowledge?
I must have, at some point.
It's the only logical explanation. I mean, this part of the country is lousy with apple trees and it's perfectly feasible that my own apple tree is cousin to the one that so tempted Eve--though I haven't seen any snakes near it. But I was forever changed and now whenever I think of drawing Professor Slughorn as a hippopotomas with a walrus mustache, I hesitate for fear of toeing the line separating sanity from the land of the fucking batshit insane. And if I shift the weight distribution of a dog from four legs to two, have I crossed an interdimensional barrier that will one day lead me to donning a red panda costume with 'follow-me' eyes and a convenient back door entrance? Where is the line drawn? Where is safety and where is peril?
Well not too long after I learned of the horrors of this delightful geek subculture, I learned what 'slash' meant and promptly farted applesauce.
Shit, that Tree of Knowledge do put out some DEEELICIOUS fruit!
And like those who are tempted by the lust of the furry convention, the slash artist/writer falls so in love with the genre he/she expresses little else. A really good slash artist is usually so single minded, they even draw 2 rival aircraft in the lock and load position and I suppose a furry artist would put, um, fur on the body and make it into a kind of Catbus with wings. Having sex.
All this makes me wonder what sort of nursing home my generation will enter when the time comes. In most senior centers, the 'activity' rooms play music from their inmates youthful past and offer familiar entertainments in whatever passes for a lounge area. For me and everyone younger, we'll be digesting our Vanilla Ensure as we listen to Back in Black or Coldplay while we surf porn and hunt down warez. The old geezer hunched over the keyboard next to me will be hacking into the pharmacy database to replace his heart pills with Viagra. So he can go out with a bang, you see. In today's homes, they have dumbed down computer classes for oldsters. Not for us. Not for folks 50 and younger. Know how they'll punish us for misbehavior then?
By banning us from Facebook.
And I just know who'll be my roommate when I'm 90. It'll be someone who, as I write this, is making sure the Velcro on his 'access hole' at the front of his Balto suit won't chafe him when he spots the juicy-assed Lion King from across the room and passions ignite.
How I anticipate the future!
Then I because active online.
And the clouds parted.
And,lo, did the veil of ignorance fall from mine eyes! The earth was split asunder and from the rent ground rose a foul stench like to egg white stuck to a dog's coat and I did tremble and bow before God, saying 'Lord, spare me this evil! I brush mine teeth daily! Why art thou--by Lucifer's sexy (but corrupt, yes horribly corrupt!) arse are those human knockers on that fox? Why show me this? Why? No I don't want to know what 'yiffing' means!
Eat from the Tree of Knowledge?
I must have, at some point.
It's the only logical explanation. I mean, this part of the country is lousy with apple trees and it's perfectly feasible that my own apple tree is cousin to the one that so tempted Eve--though I haven't seen any snakes near it. But I was forever changed and now whenever I think of drawing Professor Slughorn as a hippopotomas with a walrus mustache, I hesitate for fear of toeing the line separating sanity from the land of the fucking batshit insane. And if I shift the weight distribution of a dog from four legs to two, have I crossed an interdimensional barrier that will one day lead me to donning a red panda costume with 'follow-me' eyes and a convenient back door entrance? Where is the line drawn? Where is safety and where is peril?
Well not too long after I learned of the horrors of this delightful geek subculture, I learned what 'slash' meant and promptly farted applesauce.
Shit, that Tree of Knowledge do put out some DEEELICIOUS fruit!
And like those who are tempted by the lust of the furry convention, the slash artist/writer falls so in love with the genre he/she expresses little else. A really good slash artist is usually so single minded, they even draw 2 rival aircraft in the lock and load position and I suppose a furry artist would put, um, fur on the body and make it into a kind of Catbus with wings. Having sex.
All this makes me wonder what sort of nursing home my generation will enter when the time comes. In most senior centers, the 'activity' rooms play music from their inmates youthful past and offer familiar entertainments in whatever passes for a lounge area. For me and everyone younger, we'll be digesting our Vanilla Ensure as we listen to Back in Black or Coldplay while we surf porn and hunt down warez. The old geezer hunched over the keyboard next to me will be hacking into the pharmacy database to replace his heart pills with Viagra. So he can go out with a bang, you see. In today's homes, they have dumbed down computer classes for oldsters. Not for us. Not for folks 50 and younger. Know how they'll punish us for misbehavior then?
By banning us from Facebook.
And I just know who'll be my roommate when I'm 90. It'll be someone who, as I write this, is making sure the Velcro on his 'access hole' at the front of his Balto suit won't chafe him when he spots the juicy-assed Lion King from across the room and passions ignite.
How I anticipate the future!