Editorial by El Improbablo, famed professional wrestler
and frequent
seriousdanger contributor
A friend was recently telling me about shopping for pre-fabricated furniture at Ikea (and shoplifting tabasco sauce from their cafIKEriA, but that's another story). I asked him: "What is up, my American friend, with your obsession with Ikean housewares?"
"It's either there or Target, man," he said, with characteristic terseness. "More selection at Ikea."
"Why is it either one or the other?" I asked.
"Cheap furniture, man," he answered.
This story, I might add, is one hundred per cent true.
I confess, I know nothing of this commercial lifestyle. I have never set foot in an Ikea store, even for their chicken wings with tabasco sauce, which I'm sure are elegant, yet functional. No, I live from the copious riches of Mother Earth's ripe bosom, as my ancestors did before me. When my apartment needs furnishings, I build my own furniture from bones and skins of the elk.
My people do not waste any part of the elk. From the antlers, we make coatracks. From the hooves, we make pencil holders. We dry the tongue and use it as a lint brush. I probably shouldn't tell you how we use the bunghole, because your tiny, rigid minds can not appreciate the glorious variety of sexual congresses that exists beyond your Puritanical conception of love between two live, adult humans.
When I was a boy, I longed for the Transformers toys my classmates flaunted at show-and-tell. My mother scolded me for my covetousness. "our people do not play with Transformers," she said. "We carve the teeth of the elk into dice, and play Sorry! or Candyland."
I learned to appreciate the superiority of the elk's eyeballs to my classmates' Wacky Wall-Walkers. I replaced the ribbon in my dot matrix printer with the bloody membranes of the elk's lungs. I made tens of elk-rib back-scratchers as gifts for friends and relatives.
I attended my high school prom in an elkskin suit. That same night, I jettisoned my first gobs of ejaculate into a prophylactic my father crafted from the intestine of wapiti, the great elk. Small intestine, mind you. My people are not generously endowed.
Of course, it was not the snug womb of any coed that clenched my manhood that night. The young women of Saginaw High were, to a one, too modern of sensibility to want to attend the formal dance with a young man in elkskins. Rather, it was the disjoined anus of the mighty elk. You might say I "went stag."
Ha! Ha! Ha!
Forgive me, spirits of my ancestors.