The office where I work had a dog show today in a local park. Once again, my pet bandicoots, all forty-three of them, were not allowed to participate. I want to know why. I know they are not dogs. Maybe, instead of just limiting participants to dogs, the competition could be open to other animals. Bandicoots, for example. But not cats. Cats are the natural enemy of bandicoots.
I want you to know, the bandicoots were looking forward to performing. The little creatures worked all year perfecting a dance routine, a routine you would immediately recognize as “Thriller,” made popular by Mr. Michael Jackson, a man not averse to singing love songs to rodents, which my bandicoots proudly acknowledge they are. The bandicoots rehearsed and practiced long, hard hours, all for a few minutes of applause, leading hopefully to an encore performance of “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga, and a gift card to Outback Steakhouse where a bloomin’ onion awaited them. Reservations were made, but the decency to afford these talented darlings a chance to perform, a chance that all those stupid mutts took for granted, is beyond my understanding.
None of the dogs took the competition seriously. How do I know? The winning dog took a crap on the obstacle course and the other dogs did not even attempt to file a protest. The animals acted like they didn’t know where they were. My bandicoots always know where they are, and they show up ready to give it their all, leaving everything they’ve got on the stage, the world stage, or in this case, the outdoor basketball court where the competition took place.
But no. These bandicoots who practiced their routines in the hopes of bringing joy to all the people at the picnic were denied an opportunity, an opportunity literally shit on by the catatonic canines that lolled and sniffed and barked at their own shadows. I try to teach my small friends what a cold, cruel, ugly world this can be, a world that’s inhabited by those who would deny talented bandicoots just a sliver of an opportunity. Though I can warn them of such injustices, many small, moist bandicoot tears were shed that night. Believe me–forty-three crying bandicoots can soak a mattress like three twelve-year-olds with bedwetting problems after gulping a couple of cases of Mountain Dews.
With all that being said, I’m willing to give my place of employment another chance. I know my bandicoots; there’s no surrender in them—they’re all fight. I’ll even make this offer: let my bandicoots participate in the dog show (or whatever else you want to call it) and I’ll let the social committee decide which routine my little entertainers will perform. If you want to see a dance routine (preferable), just name the song. One-act play: just show us the script and the stage. If you want us to do what the dogs do–just sit around mostly or smell each other’s butts–we had rather not participate in such philistine activities, or what the layperson may call grab-ass. Please show us some respect and courtesy with your choice and we promise to put on a show you will never forget.