This is
an open letter to the World Wide Herpetologists Association. I get it, I’m
annoying. I may not take our collective
love affair with all things slithering so seriously, but I hold our fascination
with Eve’s weakness with no less adoration.
I admit that my attitude towards our science can be somewhat cavalier
but please, please, let me come back home!
It’s been
seven years since my now-regrettable short-sightedness forced the closure of
the “Boas for the Blind” and the “Cobras for Kids” programs that I
singlehandedly initiated and brought into fruition, as well the effort to make “Bring
Your Asp to Work Day” a global reality. Since the WWHA’s decision to send me to
Ireland, I view my scientific knowledge is being horribly wasted.
Since my
arrival, I have been getting all the sneers and finger pointing that one would
expect if one were perhaps selling snake oil…oh, sorry…or faerie dust. I have been asked to leave from more
establishments here in Ireland than I care to admit and if I hear one more
thing about this St. Patrick, I’m going to go absolutely crazy. Why not one of
you would tell me there were no snakes in Ireland I cannot possibly
fathom. Who ever heard of a place
without snakes? Who would want to live in a world where there was not the
slightest possibility of being bitten and envenomed by a serpent? Nowhere I want to remain a second longer, I
say!
Sure, it
took seven years to finally catch on to the WWHA’s attempt to rid itself of my
talents, but now I can see clearly. Yes,
it took me a while to catch on. I kept hearing that people in one pub or
another had seen a snake and I’d come running.
What did I find? The viewer in question was either passed out, or wished
to show me something that was definitely not a true Serpentes.
Then the
impressive joke at my expense along with the kindly mad gentleman from the
ISAFUC, which I later found out stood for I Saw A Freakin’ Unicorn Conglomerate.
There’s a bit of information that would have been nice to have prior to my
spending half of the snake money I had left on that monkey head scepter I was
told I had to have for the occasion. And I don’t know what I needed to wear a
dress for, being a guy and all. But now I see it all for what it was, a further
effort to keep me from joining the WWHA, where I truly belong.
Please,
please WWHA, let me back into the fold.
I promise you, no more snakeskins in your salad or Coral Snakes in bags
of Skittles. I’ve learned my lesson, I
swear. I’ll even take the gig to that
island off of Brazil. You know, that
lighthouse job, with a snake three snakes every two meters and no waiting? I’ll
gladly accept that reassignment. So
please write me back with your decision. I’ve got a lot of time on my hand, it
seems. The only good thing is that I’m
attending a dinner tomorrow where a traditional Irish potato dinner will be
served. Supposedly the Irish recipe dates back to 1847. I’ll skip breakfast and lunch so I’m extra
hungry for it.
Until next time,
Be Good or Be Good At It!
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