No one wants to hang out with eels

Goddammit, Eel, I'm just trying to do a little snorkeling here. Don't act like I came all the way over here to chill with your green ass, you Barney-looking motherfucker. You know what friends do for each other, Eel? They help you move to a new apartment, they give you high fives, and they say things like "Here, lemme get that for you." ARMS SOUND MUCH BETTER NOW, DON'T THEY EEL? So sorry to burst your bubble here, Eel, but maybe next time you'll wait until you have an actual reason to get excited.

This always happens with eels, you know, you take a wrong turn at the reef, and all of the sudden you are hanging out with a fucking eel that is telling you stories about his day and pulling out his keyboard to show you a new song he wrote about his ex-girlfriend. Well I'm not going to pretend like I'm enjoying myself, I've got more important shit to do. For example, later today I plan on going to the aquarium and mellowing out some egos. NO YOU CAN'T COME EEL. It's personal.

World's Ugliest Dog Contest Unveiled!

One month from yesterday, the biggest sham in the animal world is back: the World's Ugliest Dog Contest at the Sonoma-Marin Fair. When I first heard about the Ugliest Dog Contest, I thought "This is something I can get behind." I mean, ugly dogs are great. You get to play catch without all the shame and feelings of regret you get with a cute dog.

Then I watched a special on the contest on the Animal Planet. THESE DOGS ARE FUCKING ADORABLE. Take fucking Gus here. First of all HIS NAME IS GUS. Plus, he has three legs, almost no hair, and fucking cancer. Who is going to not have affection for Gus? Satan? GUS IS LIKE THE OPPOSITE OF BERNIE MADOFF.

As if that wasn't bad enough, Gus then died of his cancer, which meant I had to to donate more money to the National Canine Cancer Foundation, WHICH I HATE DOING. But don't worry, Archie (Update:FUCK! Stop dying dogs! Or I am going to be so mad at you...) and Elwood are still alive, spreading their false sense of ugly pride all over the country. Just remember this year, if you think the World's Ugliest Dog contest is a safe place, DO NOT WATCH IT ON THE TV. It is just going to be an hour of happy tears you will never get back.

Not for me, though. I watch it for research.

One of you is lying to me

::Looks at wombat.::

::Looks at sign.::

::Looks back at wombat.::

::Looks back at sign.::

Nooooooooooooooo!!! Which one do I believe? I bet I shouldn't listen to you, Wombat, you fucking sneaky bastard. You probably think just because you look like you want to come hang out and go to a movie and tell me how grateful you are to be out of that pen I'm going to ignore the giant sign right next to you. And yeah, signs have lied to me before. But I know what you wombats are like.

You know what? I'm not even going to let it stress me. All you wombats are the same anyway, bumbling around on stubby legs and burrowing your noses where they don't belong. Fuck you, Wombat, I'm taking my chances with the sign.

I'm on to you, you smug son of a bitch

What did you fucking do? I can't possibly imagine that you could plan something so complex as to be this fucking proud of yourself, Frog. Animals aren't supposed to be proud of themselves, you are just supposed to hop around, eat some food, and hope a nice lady frog pays attention to you. WHAT HAPPENED TO HUMILITY, FROG?

I would be willing to bet whatever you think your scheme is going to accomplish will not work. This is the real world, Frog, the big time. So unless you are in an 80s action movie with a British accent, I need you to hop back into the water and go make some tadpoles and stop acting like you just went through metamorphosis for the first time in history or something.

Why are you doing this to me?

Yes. Okay? Yes. I want to come sit on the hammock. Are you happy? This whole situation is just awful, ever since I found this photo I've been a complete mess. I've started calling up people in the neighborhood who have hammocks and asking them if they've had any bear visits lately. I hired the CIA to evaluate the photo and figure out what type of trees are in the background so I can figure out what is the most likely location of the hammock. Do you have any idea how much time it takes to recreate a photo in a three dimensional holographic workspace?

Jesus Christ, Bear, not only are you forcing me into this situation, you are making me come up with cutesy fucking headlines like "I thought you said you were going to mow the lawn" and "Sleepy the Bear says only you can prevent afternoon napping." I HAVE A REPUTATION TO UPHOLD, BEAR. Get off the hammock and go eat something with blood in it so I can think about the dichotomy between your cuteness and your insatiable thirst for flesh.

Get a sense of humor, Grandpa

Fuck you, I let you wear one of those fake knife hats! THAT SHIT IS HILARIOUS. I don't just put those on anybody, you know. What is wrong with you, Basset Hound? We used to have fun together. Remember the time we called up the Chinese restaurant and pretended we wanted to order you? And remember the time we went out to a bar to pick up chicks, but then we were all "bros before hos," and went back to the apartment and played X-Box? Now all you do is wear cardigans and take your kids to the fucking park. NOT COOL, BASSET HOUND.

You know, I invited you to this party so you could have a good time, relax a little. I know things have been crazy at the office. But I start busting out the party favors, and all of the sudden it's bummer central in here. I'm gonna need you to lighten the fuck up and put on this beer hat, or you should just put your tail between your legs and go home.

Proportion is a bitch

The long-arm craze that has been sweeping the monkey world has finally gotten out of control, and this gibbon is the direct result of that sad scandalous trend that mixed primates, plastic surgery, and international intrigue (loosely). He has basically sunk into the kind of deep depression the people at The Fake Institute (TFI) were talking about a few weeks ago when this trend hit its peak.

Why would you do that to yourself, Gibbon? Didn't you know that the name "gibbon" is already hilarious? You even have a funny hairdo! Don't even pretend like you aren't disappointed in yourself and it's me you're worried about. I've dealt with far worse on a monkey, I can take it. I know you realize deep down that this was a mistake. The question is what happens when the next trend is making tools out of sticks? Are you going to be eating ants like everyone else? You're all out of whack, Gibbon, and it's just not cool anymore. It's time to part ways, I'll see you in twenty years on VH1.

Own a piece of history

You prayed for this day from the beginning. You thought it wasn't possible, but you hoped it could happen anyway. You placed your faith in God and the publishing industry. You put your dog on notice.

Well guess what, people? THE MOMENT YOU HAVE DREAMED OF HAS ARRIVED. For the first time ever, a blog is being turned into a book, and that blog is FUCK YOU, PENGUIN. Yes, the project thirty years in the making is finally available for pre-order at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Borders, and your favorite neighborhood internet book dealer.

DO NOT RIOT IN CELEBRATION. The best way to proceed is to do the following:

1. Click on one of the links.
2. Pre-order the book.
3. Calmly wait for it to arrive on or around August 25th.
4. Organize some sort of religion based around the book, preferably involving purchasing more copies.

How did I come up with such a mind-blowing idea? Well, it wasn't easy. After all, people do not just email you asking to make your blog into a book. But I thought, hold on: blogs are just books but for free. Why not charge people for what they can get for free?!? It's working for newspapers! Plus, I've been pretty disappointed in the reach of the internet recently. I know it's been called the "information superhighway," but recently, it's felt more like the "information cul-de-sac" (please give me credit when you quote that line at parties). Who really goes on the internet anymore anyway? Books, on the other hand, are creeping up the charts like "whoa." OK, I'm just going to say it: books are going to be for the 21st century what books were for the 20th century. Believe that!

I know this seems like a cheap way to cash in on work that should be done for the good of humanity, and trust me, it is. But the book is so much more than that. Full color photos. Physical reproductions of the classics, but MORE THAN A THIRD NEW MATERIAL unavailable anywhere else. Plus, I made it just good enough that scholars will be evaluating its impact for years to come, but not so good as to prevent other people who would write good books from getting too discouraged and giving up on their careers. But at the end of the day, getting the word out about the penguin threat is the most important thing, and that's what this book does. In fact, the surprisingly handsome author of the Illmatic installment in the 33 1/3 series on classic albums called it "The most important book ever."

SO BUY YOUR COPY TODAY. Do not wait, because otherwise you will have to buy it after your friends already have their copies and have developed an entire set of inside jokes based on the mind-blowing revelations contained within. If you act now, I will even throw in a receipt with every order! (Participation may vary.)

Moles have comically low expectations of themselves

Oh, hooray, Mole. You made it out of the ground. Why are you so excited? DO YOU WANT A FUCKING MEDAL? Pretty pathetic, Mole. First of all, you are a mole, it's kind of like a dolphin being impressed it can swim. And second, being blind doesn't count as a disability in moles. Maybe if you were driving or operating heavy machinery the look of pride and joy on your face at the moment would be understandable. But at this point, this is standard meat and potatoes mole stuff, dude. So just because you're making me share in your joy doesn't mean I'm going to let you get away with it. I'd stay underground until I had a clear life plan moving forward if I were you, Mole.

And please, nail clippers. They are like a dollar. Don't tell me you're too lazy to use a shovel.

I don't approve of you either

I know you don't like me, Sea Turtle. I can tell not only because of that look plastered across your face, but because you sent me that report card that had "Needs Improvement" marked all the way down the list. Well, guess what, Sea Turtle? I DON'T THINK YOU'RE SO FUCKING GREAT EITHER. All you do is live underwater where you can't breathe and then come to my beach and bury your eggs all over the place. No one thinks you're better than a tortoise, Sea Turtle, so stop thinking you can judge everyone just because I followed you around the tank at the aquarium for an hour and a half.

Yes, perhaps at one point I may have said something to the effect of, "If only a sea turtle would like me, I could be happy," possibly during a deposition. And it's possible I wanted to have flippers like yours, but knowing how much of a dick I would turn into, I think I'm going to ride this opposable thumb thing out. You see, Turtle (pun intended, fucker), I like my life. Could I change a few things? Sure. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let a sea turtle come over here and tell me how to go about doing it.

What is even going on here?

Here we go. The silky fucking hen. What is this thing thinking when it goes outside every day? It's like David Bowie meets Tim Burton meets Colonel Sanders. Did you just step out into the light after a night of clubbing? CHICKENS ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO DO COCAINE, SILKY HEN.

I'm just going to be honest: I'm terrified of you. I don't know if it's the pom-pom specifically or just that I didn't know it was possible to get whites that white, but something about your look says "I'm coming to steal your dreams." So stay away from me, you dream-stealing poultry devil.

Caracals just have to be different

What are you trying to prove, Caracal? THERE IS A BASIC CAT TEMPLATE THAT YOU HAVE TO FOLLOW. Ears are only allowed to be so different. There's regular cat ears and folded cat ears. Occasionally, you can have frog eyes for ears (only if you're good). That's fucking it, Caracal. There is nothing in the cat guidelines that allows for custom whale-tails with permed ear-hair. Maybe if it looked a little better I could let it slide. Are you trying to get television reception with those things? Don't even try to flatter me with the come hither look, either, I'm not falling for it. The last time they let a cat get away with some radical shit this happened. Not on my watch, buddy, NOT ON THIS BLOG'S WATCH.