What Animal Would I Ride Into Battle?
One of the greatest mysteries of human existence can be succinctly summarized as such: Which one of you mother fuckers ate the last of my Wheat Thins?! Seriously, I had to venture into Walmart to purchase it– and have you seen the people of Walmart? God knows that I would rather stare down a Weeping Angel than see another white-trash angel stamped on the doughy lower-back of some slut named Ralph. I suspect Evan because of how many times I’ve ravaged his pantry when we were younger. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Because warm Wheat Thins are just kinda weird.
But since that’s a mystery that’s difficult to solve (owning up is too onerous for us on the Disorder), maybe I’ll just focus on a simpler mystery: What separates humans from animals. I know that philosophers have struggled for eons to grasp what makes us “special,” but it can really be aptly described in two words: Wheat Thins. I’ve never seen another animal manage to accrue the necessary land and capital, reap enough wheat, cultivate all other expedients, and develop the necessary drug contacts to sprinkle just the perfect amount of meth to make it deliciously addictive. This makes all other creatures subservient. Only once they’ve perfected this process will I consider them my equals.
Since we have a long history of subjugating animals for morally dubious purposes, we have certain paradigms and idols that we look up to. Most of them are military men who rode great beasts into glorious battle. Hannibal had his elephants. Genghis Khan had his horses. Jim, his fleet of rabid squirrels. (Don’t laugh. You’ve never known true terror until you’ve looked into the evil intent in their shifty eyes). Since five and half metric tons of Savannah furry, thousands of callous hooves, or millions of malignant little bastards aren’t apparently enough to sate man’s ego, we also see fictional characters riding even more ludicrously awesome animals. Mario rides a prehistoric throwback with an indescribable indifference towards death. Optimus Prime made headlines riding his own steam-punk tyrannosaur– making paleontology fans squeal (proudly, might I add). Gandalf has giant freaking falcons which, no, he couldn’t have just ridden all the way to fuckin’ Mordor on. Various lions, tigers, and bears have been valiantly conquered all in the sake of evidently compensating for something. These are all well and good, but someone recently asked me which animal would I choose to ride into battle. So let me introduce a creature that would make every animal simultaneously have wet dreams and nightmare diarrhea:
First off, what is a tardigrade? Why haven’t you seen it before? Why did Meagan leave you?
Well tardigrades are small unicellular organisms about a fifth of an inch long that float about in water droplets. [Edit: At the insistence of Michael, Peter has decided to amend the word “small” to “perfectly robust and adequate”]. They’ve been on this earth longer than the time between you and the extinction of the dinosaurs six times over and the reason that Meagan left you is because one up and showed her what endurance and durability really means.
Lay me lay down some hard facts for you:
- This squishy little water bear has been shown to survive just a few degrees above absolute fucking zero. Which, to put into perspective, is at least two-hundred degrees colder than the heart of your last unsuccessful lover. It’s cold. It’s almost to the point where atoms decide to straight-up stop. Hannibal’s bitch-ass elephants got themselves decimated by the paltry chill of the Alps. A herd of tardigrades would’ve asked to lower the thermostat.
- You know how we meat-bags tend to melt when we’re exposed to enough radiation. Guess who can take a dose of Alphas, Betas, and Gammas that would make the Hulk sizzle and proceed to make a sex tape with Meagan? Mother. Fucking. Tardigrades. They’ve laughed at amounts hundreds of times over the lethal limit. Just like they’d laugh at the corpses of your enemies.
- Ever want to be an astronaut millionaire cowboy? Is the only thing stopping you the fact that your noble steed would freeze into equine jerky in the vacuum of oblivion? Look no further than tardigrades. They’ve survived the vacuum of space. They’ve stared into the deepest reaches of the omnipresent cosmic darkness and waddled away without so much a care in the world. Because the fucking world could up and die and they’d still survive. Nay. They’d thrive.
- Let’s end this with a life-span comparison. Horses will live for about fifteen years, elephants for maybe seventy, and Yoshi’s for approximately 8.7 seconds before their owners send them to Hades’ embrace for the sake of a double-jump. Do you want to know how long tardigrades live for? Two. Hundred. Years. And that’s not even the upper limit. To put this in perspective, they’ve not only fucked your mother, sister, and significant other (it’s why they’ve been looking longingly at the water as it pours from the tap)– they’ve fucked your grandma, her mother, and every female relative associated with your surname roughly 15 generations further. And at least seventy percent of the males too– because it is too badass to be typecast into our prudish sexual norms. And it’s done so to everybody you’ve ever known. This is because for every one of us, there are a billion of them.
Size is an issue, sure. But assuming that we can size them up, I’ll be able to confidently corner the true miscreants of human existence. And I will ignore their pitiful pleas for mercy and quarter before asking the one question that will either deliver a agonizing death or a painless one.
“Which one of you mother fuckers ate my Wheat Thins?”