I was lying in the dank pit of my room, surrounded by gently roaring lions that were eyeing me as if I was a prime bit of ostrich flesh (I know it is common knowledge that lions, and large cats in particular, enjoy giraffe, but these lions were a rare breed of orthocopus leo that, among ostrich flesh, also love the spindly legs of the orthocopus) and I sang them 'Boys of Summer' to keep them at bay when my father, large lemur that he is, trounced in and announced that this sentence has stretched on far beyond the realms of reality.

"Dear father," I said between the hardened beaks of my lips, "I understand." And so he fell upon the window, his long black striped tail waving in the wind from the South American rainforest jungle breeze, as I looked outside at the brothel across the street. A gorilla was leaning on the arm of a leopard as they scate boarded around the parking lot next to a 7-11. "Do you know," I said, "That couple may just work out."

"Don't be silly." He announced in his abundant lemur wisdom, "Everyone knows all gorillas are prostitutes."