Snakes On A Motherfucking Plane.
Alright, so let me go on record with something here. I hate snakes. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, the hate despises those little creatures wihout legs that have forked tongues. Can't stand them. Shudders, then screams like a little girl at the mere sight of them. They scare me worse than midgets, and I'm a man who's seriously freaked out by midgets.
Examples of this include going to the zoo and refusing, point blank, to go into the reptile house because there are snakes in the reptile house. I sat on a bench and smoked cigarettes until the rest of my friends were done with the reptile house. They tried to talk me into going inside, and I politely reminded them I hate snakes.
Like when one of my exes bought their nephews snakes for Christmas and had to keep them in the bedroom until Christmas to hide them. I refused to sleep in the bed. I slept on the couch. Sure, the snakes were tiny, harmless, and behind glass...but I could feel their beady little eyes watching me...always watching. When they tried to convince me to hold one I informed them that if the snake touched me, it had to die. Just because of the principle of the situation.
I don't know where this fear comes from, possibly the fact that anything that can be deadly, yet curl up to comfortably fit in a dark piece of luggage where I might unwittingly stick my hand is NOT appropriate as a housepet. In my mind, sankes are mindless, soulless killing machines based solely on the idea that they must eat tiny, squeaking rodents. They're evil. Pure and simple.
Not only real snakes, oh now. I shudder at snakes in movies, snakes on TV, and realistic lookign rubber novelty snakes that many children buy for the joke value. I'm convinced they're real snakes, just laying in wait for the day we let our guard down. Then they strike. The only snake-ish thing I have ever found myself liking is Cobra Commander in G.I. Joe, and that's because he gets fucked everytime he tries something big.
Alright, end of the snake rant. Back to work.
Examples of this include going to the zoo and refusing, point blank, to go into the reptile house because there are snakes in the reptile house. I sat on a bench and smoked cigarettes until the rest of my friends were done with the reptile house. They tried to talk me into going inside, and I politely reminded them I hate snakes.
Like when one of my exes bought their nephews snakes for Christmas and had to keep them in the bedroom until Christmas to hide them. I refused to sleep in the bed. I slept on the couch. Sure, the snakes were tiny, harmless, and behind glass...but I could feel their beady little eyes watching me...always watching. When they tried to convince me to hold one I informed them that if the snake touched me, it had to die. Just because of the principle of the situation.
I don't know where this fear comes from, possibly the fact that anything that can be deadly, yet curl up to comfortably fit in a dark piece of luggage where I might unwittingly stick my hand is NOT appropriate as a housepet. In my mind, sankes are mindless, soulless killing machines based solely on the idea that they must eat tiny, squeaking rodents. They're evil. Pure and simple.
Not only real snakes, oh now. I shudder at snakes in movies, snakes on TV, and realistic lookign rubber novelty snakes that many children buy for the joke value. I'm convinced they're real snakes, just laying in wait for the day we let our guard down. Then they strike. The only snake-ish thing I have ever found myself liking is Cobra Commander in G.I. Joe, and that's because he gets fucked everytime he tries something big.
Alright, end of the snake rant. Back to work.