Sometimes I have to admit if god existed he would be one hilarious motherf**ker. Look at the platypus. He looks like the unfortunate result of a duck ramming a beaver. He looks nonthreatening, probably gets dominated in the office, and made fun of by his co-workers. His wife is probably cheating on him and his 401(k) is in the shitter. Sucks to be you, glad to be me.
Now playtpuses are fun because you never actually see them, unless you’re at a zoo. They don’t disturb you, and they definitely don’t ruin your day, so I can’t harp too much on some unfortunate creature that is clearly suffering.
You smell like jizz. Full on–nature’s load. This tree is the worst thing to happen to New York City springtime fun.
Every year it seems to be the same story. You’re walking to work without your jacket because the weather is getting warmer. The crisp air still cool from the passing winter meets your face with the sun’s warmth. You nearly get a hard-on from all the possibilities you’re imagining. Warmer weather means less clothes. Less clothes means more skin. More skin is more awesome. On girls.
For the past 4 blocks you were following a hot girl in a floral dress. You’re waiting for her to turn around, maybe look down a side street to really evaluate if she’s hot. A breeze lifts her dress enough for you to see a lil’ cheek. Noice.
Can it get any better? You’re thinking this is the life–boom! In your face. Up in your grill. The most putrid smell is penetrating your nose like a freshly convicted pedo in lock up. You’re wondering what is going on. Did a dumpster get turned over? Did someone jizz on the sidewalk. You need to breathe so you smell it again, but you don’t see a condom anywhere near you. Then you see it. The f**king bradford pear tree. Nature’s smelly guido.
You run to the subway, Dwayne Reade–anywhere indoors. It’s impossible to escape. Large breathes slowly pick away the smell, but it lingers ungodly long. As soon as you think its gone the meer thought of the stench brings it back. It’s the Freddy Kruger of scents. It makes you think The Happening was a documentary.
You now have PTSD.
That happens every year.
Things need to change. The only solution is to wear a gasmask and chop every bradford pear tree down. Root the saplings and incinerate their corpses. We need a bradford pear tree genocide.