This is an open letter to the World Wide Herpetologists Association. I get it, I’m annoying. I may not take our collective love affair with all things slithering so seriously, but I hold our fascination with Eve’s weakness with no less adoration. I admit that my attitude towards our science can be somewhat cavalier but please, please, let me come back home!
It’s been seven years since my now-regrettable short-sightedness forced the closure of the “Boas for the Blind” and the “Cobras for Kids” programs that I singlehandedly initiated and brought into fruition, as well the effort to make “Bring Your Asp to Work Day” a global reality. Since the WWHA’s decision to send me to Ireland, I view my scientific knowledge is being horribly wasted.
Since my arrival, I have been getting all the sneers and finger pointing that one would expect if one were perhaps selling snake oil…oh, sorry…or faerie dust. I have been asked to leave from more establishments here in Ireland than I care to admit and if I hear one more thing about this St. Patrick, I’m going to go absolutely crazy. Why not one of you would tell me there were no snakes in Ireland I cannot possibly fathom. Who ever heard of a place without snakes? Who would want to live in a world where there was not the slightest possibility of being bitten and envenomed by a serpent? Nowhere I want to remain a second longer, I say!
Sure, it took seven years to finally catch on to the WWHA’s attempt to rid itself of my talents, but now I can see clearly. Yes, it took me a while to catch on. I kept hearing that people in one pub or another had seen a snake and I’d come running. What did I find? The viewer in question was either passed out, or wished to show me something that was definitely not a true Serpentes.
Then the impressive joke at my expense along with the kindly mad gentleman from the ISAFUC, which I later found out stood for I Saw A Freakin’ Unicorn Conglomerate. There’s a bit of information that would have been nice to have prior to my spending half of the snake money I had left on that monkey head scepter I was told I had to have for the occasion. And I don’t know what I needed to wear a dress for, being a guy and all. But now I see it all for what it was, a further effort to keep me from joining the WWHA, where I truly belong.
Please, please WWHA, let me back into the fold. I promise you, no more snakeskins in your salad or Coral Snakes in bags of Skittles. I’ve learned my lesson, I swear. I’ll even take the gig to that island off of Brazil. You know, that lighthouse job, with a snake three snakes every two meters and no waiting? I’ll gladly accept that reassignment. So please write me back with your decision. I’ve got a lot of time on my hand, it seems. The only good thing is that I’m attending a dinner tomorrow where a traditional Irish potato dinner will be served. Supposedly the Irish recipe dates back to 1847. I’ll skip breakfast and lunch so I’m extra hungry for it.
Until next time,
Be Good or Be Good At It!