progress has achieved wonderful things, too. Paving. Asphalt. Smog. Car alarms that wake you up in the middle of the fucking night. Carcinogenic food. The Exxon Valdez. That stereo in the apartment upstairs. Hydrogen bombs. Hormone-injected meat. Artificial coloring. Alarm clocks (and a society so dependent on measured time that we need alarm clocks). Television, and a society that has replaced "How can we improve the human condition?" with "Hey, did'ja see the Simpsons last night? Huh huh". An Internet where people like us can waste away their free time instead of going out and having a life. Yeah! Progress! I love it! Get me the genetic splicing kit! I want to make a new kind of trout!
"Woo woo woo! Look at them legs!" the fresh maple leaves shouted. The cloth catnip mouse was offended, but said nothing. She had long been exposed to that kind of behaviour from deciduous plants. "I'll be glad to get home," she thought to herself. "I'm hungry, and at least Finky will treat me with some respect." She reached 44th Street and entered her building where Adolfo, the bumble-ball doorman, was on duty. He rose unsteadily and nodded to her. Next to his chair was a nearly-empty bottle of kaopectate. "'S' nothin'," he lisped drunkenly. "Jus' a little shot t' hold me until I getta break." She said nothing and, avoiding his gaze, quickly went inside. The elevator arrived at her floor and she dashed into their small apartment. To her surprise she saw the familiar large plastic penguin standing in the doorway to the kitchen, naked, holding a dozen roofing nails in one flipper and a birthday cake, with candles, in the other. "Finky!" she laughed. "You remembered!" "Happy birthday, Sheiloo, my favorite little cloth catnip mouse," Finky replied. After a leisurely candlelit dinner of cake and roofing nails, the two giggled and retired to the bedroom
He grabbed Steinfrau's nose. There was nothing for it now; he had to hang on, hang on for dear life, or else the mad German would be gone and there would be no way to prove his innocence. Steinfrau tried to roll up the window of the moving cab, but with a massive lunge he managed to jam his free hand in and around the crank; the pressure on his arm was terrible, but the window stopped in mid-rise, and the extra handgrip helped him hang on as the cab increased its speed. They were heading toward Midtown. There was a chance, a bare chance; if he could hook his ankle around the fence at the 59th Street sidewalk café he might be able to slow them down. But would he be able to? People were screaming, throwing things; there were angry shouts from theatregoers and commuters, traffic cops pointed at him and swore. Steinfrau seemed to be egging them on, damn him.
llogic willll prevaill. That llamas shoulld be cruelllly handlled, llocked away llike criminalls, is not to be llightlly llooked upon. Llamas llooking forllornlly upon their llost lliberties, lleaning from their celllls llonging for lliberation, llost, llistlless and allone, woulld be a llamentable lloss. Llet us plledge lleniency for allll llamas! Llimit this lludicrous llitigation! Write lletters to your llegisllators