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Sunday, March 2, 2014

The Pet Tarantula Speaks

Oh, it's you.

Look, I just want to be left alone in my burrow until something comes along to eat.  Then I'll eat it.  Then I'll go back to sleep.

I really don't enjoy crawling over your fingers in order to impress that girl you got with you.  Face it.  You really don't have a chance.  Even with a pet tarantula.  If you had a chance, you wouldn't need a pet tarantula, but having a pet tarantula guarantees you will never have a chance.  Not until I die and you throw me in the trashcan.

Jeez, I wish I hadn't thought about that.  Now I'm depressed.

The deal is, friend, none of my coolness rubs off on you.  None.  If that mustache you've been trying to grow and those ill-advised tattoos haven't made you cool, what makes you think I will?  That's right, I won't.

In fact, I've got some news to break to you.  Tarantulas aren't even cool to themselves.  I see nothing remarkable about my eight hairy legs or the way I look.  I don't think I'm especially big.  Compared to you for example, I'd say I was pretty small.  Being a tarantula isn't something I do because it's cool.  It's just who I am.

If you really want to do me a favor, find me a mate.  I've got an itching to exchange some signals with a female of the same species, mate, then get the hell out of there before she eats me.  I've never been a daddy, and I'd like to know there's between fifty and two thousand eggs out there that I've fathered.

Now go away and let me sleep.

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