Job Dissatisfaction

9 Sep


Just as the portal to the human world blinked to nothingness, the purple dinosaur muttered, “Thank god, that’s over.” He walked up secret jungle path where only a few minutes before, two smaller dinosaurs dragged their unusually short legs to their lair.

The purple tyrannosarus was seven feet tall with fat, puffy toes — an embarassment to his fathers whose powerful claws made them the most feared reptiles on earth. His friends, the yellow and green triceratops walked on two legs, also very much unlike their proud ancestors.

The big purple one walked into his den where the two other outcasts rented rooms. He found the pair in the midst of an animated debate.

“Beatrice! My name is Beatrice! Call me Baby Bop out here and I’ll bite your head off!”

“At least you got a whole name. I’m still looking for the twisted under-sexed writer who came up with the name, B.J.?”

“What’s going on?” the big purple thing asked.

“Oh hi, Bernard,” the green female sighed. “Just … just blowing off some steam. Getting back from that place always gets us down.”

The big one joined the siblings on the dinette set. “Tell me about it. Just when I thought I’ve sung ‘The I Love You Song’ for the last time, they ask me to sing it again. I thought I was finally going to puke mid-way through the first stanza.”

“Wanna puke? Here, smell my ‘blankie’.” The green styracosaurus shoved the over-used prop up Bernard’s snout.

The yellow one began to chuckle hysterically. “Actually, every time you sing ‘there was a hole … the prettiest hole that you ever did see’, I get a totally different mental picture.”

“And you wonder why they call you B.J.?” his sister sneered. “Make yourself useful, Jordan, and hand me the aniline dye.”

As Beatrice rubbed the green dye all over her otherwise gray hide, she wondered aloud, “Do you guys think we’ll ever get to do something else?”

The three looked at each other tentatively.

Bernard began, “The moment we stop doing this to do what we really want to do …”

“You mean, like put my BS in Architecture to good use?” Jordan dreamt.

Beatrice added, “Or take my Masters in Applied Actuarial Science?”

“Yes, that. The moment we stop making fools of ourselves, entertaining their two-year old spawns and do what we really want to do, the men will have us skinned, dried, passed off as well-preserved ‘fossils’, and displayed in a museum. Just like my great-grandaunt Sue. Now, hand me the purple dye and a shot of scotch.”

(This entry is dedicated to Lisa, my little birthday girl, who still thinks Barney is the coolest thing in the world. Don’t worry, Mommy will fix that soon.)

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