Mandrill!Is that not the weirdest word?
Say it with me...Mandrill.
Once more, with feeling...MANdrill!
Now take a look at one of the creepiest, most awesomely awesome faces ever:
That, my friends, is a mandrill. Isn't he dreamy?
I met him at the Buffalo zoo this past Sunday, and I love him.
He has a whoopie cushion for a butt, which I happen to think is marvelous:
Hard to make out in that picture, but his whoopie cushion butt is also psychedelic, very aurora borealis, all purple-y and pink and greeny-blue, depending on how the light hits it.
As I said to my kids, upon observing said whoopie cushion butt, "It appears as if he has a balled-up prom dress, circa 1989, attached to his ass."
I believe I spent approximately forty-five minutes just staring at Mandrill, saying asinine things WAY too loudly to Mandrill, much to my husband's chagrin (Manny-poo all mean and scary-looking! You're not mean, are you Manny-poopers? Dear me, but you're a handsome devil! Yes you are! Such a handsome, handsome Manny-poop!).
Lar had to bribe me with pizza in order to get me to leave my Mandrill.
Unfortunately for Lar, the next exhibit featured a darling rhino -- spent a good half hour gawking at Mr. Ronald J. DeRhino:
That's me, Brandon, Sarah, Veronica and Ariel
(I'm the one with the junk in da trunk and wicked-cool platform sandals -- click to enlarge junk).
Lar bribed me with ice cream, then we hit my favorite exhibit of all time:
What gorgeousosity! How regal and fierce and ohmygodso...Oh, I dunno...LionTASTIC!
You would be correct in assuming Lar had to bribe me away yet again, but this time he was forced to pull out the big guns due to my trance-like state and alarming cooing and baby-talking (ooooh, sweet lion! Wookit da sweet manly man! Manly man gots him some pretty bitches, yes he does!) -- BEER.
Catch was, we had to go home to have the beer.
Much as I love animals, I love my beer even more, so away we went.
Wow, what a lame post this is, huh?
I apologize, but it's ninety-five degrees up here in my windowless, un-airconditioned attic office, and I honestly cannot think straight. I simply can't write in an intelligent manner when my skull is melting.
I realize that the above lament is oft repeated here on OWM, especially when the end of July, beginning of August rolls around, but when I say that it feels as if a giant white candle is sticking out of the top of my head, I mean it.
My head would be the perfect accoutrement for, say, Vincent Price's end table, or Edgar Allan Poe's writing desk.
Okay, now I'm just babbling.