A little while ago (30 minutes?) I received word by carrier pigeon that the good sir Billy Cannon wanted me to write an article about wild animals. Visions of walruses frolicking against the fading sun on a beach in the Himalayas danced in my head, but I knew Billy wasn’t kidding. So I had to get serious. I had to say what really was on my mind. Let’s be honest with one another for a moment here, people. Being human…eh…not so much. Wouldn’t it be nice if we weren’t constrained by our boring anatomies and could transform ourselves into different, say, animals? That’d be pretty sweet. “But Freeman,” you might say, “you are an animal! Human beings, are, in fact animals! You’re so silly! You make me lau-” Sort of hard to talk when I’ve gone bear-mode on you, smiting you with my mighty paws. But seriously now, let’s think of the possibilities. One day, you happen to be that kid who drops his tray in commons; then some fool across the room thinks it’d be real clever to start the slow clap right up. T-Rex mode, problem solved. Or better yet, Star Jones mode. No one messes with Star Jones. “Hey but Freeman you just shredded my face into three hundred little pieces and sent me to the emergency ward and reconstructive surgery for three months for saying humans were animals too, and now you’re turning into other human, which leads me to believe you might agree with what I previously said!”. Touche, good sir, but while I digest you in my Anaconda stomach, my eleven-second serpent memory has already forgotten the embarrassment I had been subjected to in realizing the truth of your statement. I’m a snake, son. You think I care? Now some of you ladies out there might be thinking, “Freeman. I’ve seen the Discovery Channel, I’ve seen how much those animals breed. I know what your real intentions are in trying to turn everyone into animals, you lonely, lonely little man. This is all some horribly sick little ploy of yours.” Oh really? Most of you ladies get to eat your spouse if you’re not satisfied with him; I don’t really want to hear that. Still don’t agree with me? Look who just went Star Jones mode. Say something to me now. Chuck Norris mode, anyone? How about those times when you’re in a perfectly comfortable position, say a favorite couch or chair, and out of the blue some “friend” of yours walks in the room claiming he had “fives” on your seat. Now, you could go Star Jones/T-Rex/Polar Bear/Chuck Norris mode on him, but let’s be a little more creative. You could become a stranded whale. That’d be fun. Or you could become a monkey and throw fecal matter all over yourself, then dare your buddy to get you out of his spot. The choice is yours. Honestly, I think I wouldn’t use the ability to become Chuck Norris or a bear or anything cool like that. I think I’d just turn into a clam from time to time. You’re talking to me in Commons, poof, I’m a clam. Clam on a tram. Clam on a dam. Clam in Vietnam. Clam taking an exam. Mammogram clam. Hydraulic ram clam. Breast of Lamb clam. Dual Overhead Cam Clam. Strawberry jam clam. Golden Graham clam. Jean-Claude Van Damme Clam. A clam in Amsterdam who can’t quite remember just where I am. Now I know some of you are thinking… wow, I just wasted three minutes (or forty-seven minutes, depending on whether or not you’re Owen Remeika) reading this article. Sorry, it’s true I just sort of spat out what I thought about animals. But if you were a goldfish, you wouldn’t even have the ability to worry about where those three minutes of your life had just gone. Think about that. Or don’t, Mr. Fish
