Don’t mess with the Indian gray mongoose, they are probably the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet.
The mongoose was on the prowl, looking for some snake, the venomous kind, very much like a repressed horny man seeking free pornography. It exuded desperation, and didn’t give one iota of shit beyond the end goal.
It was an Indian gray mongoose. It’s how they do. This is not to say they’re all the same. That would be mongoosism. Yet, at the same time, it is not a denial.
The moon said, “Checkmate.” The man stood there, dumbfounded. Minutes later he said, “You’re a checkmate.”
Long into the night, the man debated with the moon over the terms waxing and waning. All the while, growing louder and louder with each shot of cheap bourbon they imbibed. The man claimed that the moon was waxing, and the moon insisted that the man was waning.
It did not matter a lick that they were both correct, for there was still a lot of bourbon left. What the two lacked in intelligence, they more than made up for with their impeccable stamina.
This being a fable, you can bet your sweet petunia pie that this ant will suffer while we learn some sort of lesson.
“Hey dude, you’re blocking the sun.”
The man paused, and looked all about. “Who the what?” He was confused by the curious voice that seemed to come from nowhere.
“Down here, numb brain.” It was a common black ant. If you are familiar with the body language of ants, you would know it was pissed. Seriously.
A real life Rube Goldberg machine that complicates the easiest of tasks for the sake of inconvenience.
The words penetrated a stressful hour of silence, which felt like a fortnight. This is how time elapses in the penitentiary.