lettttttaaafffffooooori.

Let Tamsen Donner rejoice with the ravenous hamster mother, who stores its babe's flesh in the pock-marked pockets of its fleshy cheeks.
For I say that even the vegan-y-ist of us, when left in the cold mountains for months alone, would partake of our husband's deliciously meaty remains.

Let Ted Danson with the raccoon rejoice, who has refined the harrowing practice of black face.
For I bless said dumbass, and warmly say he is, in fact, not the boss.

Let Harry Potter rejoice with the pterodactyl, whose ginormous wingspan and terrifying caw could wet the pants of even the bravest of men.
For I can't think of anything cooler than Harry Potter sitting down for a beer with a fucking pterodactyl.

Let my high school history teacher rejoice with the elephant, whose mighty size could block out e'en the sun's bold rays.
For I... nevermind. Too easy.

Let Gabriel Gudding rejoice with the bunny, who is fluffy and good and can't tie his own shoes.
For I humbly remind you that the pterodactyl is already taken.

Let the unsinkable Molly Brown rejoice with Al Gore, who saves the polar bears simply by repeatedly widening and contracting his jaw muscles.
For to save an iceberg is to nurture a frigid, natural lifeboat for Kathy Bates.

Let Sandra Zielinski rejoice with her cat, whose tail caught fire last night when it swished too close to a cranberry-pear scented candle.
For I suspected the scent was something living, but still didn't say anything.

Let Jesus rejoice with the ass, whose ass bore his ass through the masses in Jerusalem.
For well I knew that his vintage Volkswagen was out of petrol.

Let Ken Mooney with the bull rejoice, who swaggers proudly among the cows of the field.
For I won't have sex with a bull, either. Even if he does have a nice bell.

Let my stepmother with the hyena rejoice, whose laughter is like a million jingle bells that have fallen prey to a garbage disposal.
For Valium is the pill of the gods (and of hyena women).

Let Henrik Ibsen rejoice with the unicorn, who lives only within the hearts of the half-deaf and half-blind of the world.
For I bless a man who writes himself into his female counterparts' hearts. Also, it's kind of fun to imagine Ibsen with a horn.

Let Britney rejoice with the rooster, whose cries call the world to attention any time, day or night. Or at least used to.
For I wouldn't want to wake up at the sound of either.

Let Deb Alley with the quiet lioness rejoice, whose humble mane says nothing of her deliciously ferocious bite.
For I hope that if she happens to see this post sometime, she'll want to cast me again. Let's be honest here.