Zoe Goes to the Zoo

So I took myself a vacation then. As you may know, my wife and I have a toddler (Lennon) and a pre-toddler (Zoe), so I pretty much figured my little vacation was going to be about driving a great distance in order to babysit somewhere besides home. But as it turned out, by staying with my wife's folks near Park City, I was able to get a pretty good break from the babies and the heat. It's not like we neglected our parental responsibilities altogether, it was just nice to have some help. Besides, we did our bit--Lagoon, the Zoo; in fact, it's the Zoo toward which I've chosen to direct the bulk of this week's discourse.

As I think I may've mentioned to you before, my two-year-old daughter, Lennon, is nuts for animals. We're all about God's critters at the Boneman's abode. If the TV isn't tuned to Animal Planet, we're looking at those two hopped-up Krapp brothers and their silly leaping monkey, "Zabu" or whatever. As a matter of fact, we took Len to the Zoo about a year ago and she had the time of her life; but oddly enough, she didn't much care for the Zoo this time around. She seemed kind of bummed, we couldn't believe it.

Nowadays she's accustomed to animals on TV--roaming freely, zipping around, born to do the "wild thing," and she could tell there was something wrong with these poor "Hogle" inmates. She wasn't happy, all she could say was "Pete's, Pete's," which is her word for "sleep." (She doesn't go to sleep, she goes to Pete's.) She couldn't figure out why all the animals were just laying around. I was never much for Zoos myself, but if a 2 year old can figure out that it's wrong to keep wild animals cooped up for life, then the Boneman's gotta come down hard on the oppressors, "Zoos blow - they gotta go! We don't need your cages, yo - we've got cable. HBO."

It is depressing--you got the King of the Jungle, sprawled out in a puddle of his own piss, like a wino. Little kids were all excited talkin' about, "Mom, look it's Simba, it's Simba." Godfrey, Simba? I dunno, it's just saddening I guess . . . seeing kids that stupid. A few doors down they've got a huge Bengal Tiger pacing around it's dinky little cage like Robert Downey Jr. in rehab, and a massive hippo floating in a foul little trough like a three-quarter ton turd. The only inmate I didn't feel sorry for was the sloth. He's just hang'n out, being himself. Doesn't even have to find food. Room service twice a day. "Hey, maybe I'm no Grizzly Bear, but I am a deadly sin." (This is an example of the kind of crap I ordinarily edit out.)

So anyway, our little bungle in the jungle left us all a little tired and out of sorts and by the time we got back, I was ready for a nap. Right off the bat, I was swept away into a wild and crazy dream. "Are you kidding me--I forgot my camera at the zoo?" I drove back down to "Salty Town" in the foulest of moods, but when I turned up Emigration canyon, I was suddenly amazed at the spectacle my eyes beheld. Hundreds of people were stampeding toward me, climbing trees, scrambling into their cars, screaming for their lives, and hot on their heals came the animals. Holy Moses, what an Exodus--monkeys riding elephants, a heavenly fanfare, wild . . . boars, you know the drill. After the glorious procession had passed, I entered the zoo surprised to discover that Hogle had taken the loss of all it's animals well in stride, and it was business as usual.

My tour guide (Elvis Presley) informed me that from now on, all of the exhibits at Hogle would be of the Homo Sapien variety. "To your immediate right," pointed Elvis, "you can see San Francisco Man--ain't he clean. As of yet, he's been unable to breed in captivity, but he sure did decorate his cage up nice. They can get a little emotional, I'm afraid--that bandage on the taller one's head was over a little scrap involving a Barbra Streisand album." As we moved along, Elvis introduced the next attraction as West Virginia Man--"Also known as Homo Inbreedus, this web-toed specimen can whistle through his forehead and is believed to be his own uncle. Let's hear it for him, come on folks--don't be cruel."

"Next up ladies and germs is Golfer Man--at first Golfer Man adjusted quite well to captivity and even built himself a cute little ol' putting green in his area here," explained Elvis, "but lately he's become a little bored I guess, all he likes to do now is embarrass zoo visitors by playing with his balls. I reckon that's why they call Ôim a Ôscratch' golfer." This really cracked the King up.

Inhabiting the zoo's largest enclosure was Homo Inhibitus--Mormon Man. "As you can see, this local favorite has set a new zoo record for the number of offspring bred in captivity--and often delights visitors and staff alike with his non-musical version of "Seven Brides For One Brother." Elvis chuckled and said, "let me tell ya folks, I could never get Priscilla to go for that. Lord knows I begged."

"Step right along people, but hold your noses, because next up is French Man--also known as Homo Malodorous, this new attraction likes to go Ôau natural.' In American, that means he smells like onion soup and he don't even give a hoot. Whew, sombody hose that boy down. If you're wondering why he's gettin' all excited like that, it's because he thinks I'm Jerry Lee Lewis." Elvis doubled over laughing at his own joke, "I kill myself sometimes, Jerry Lee Lewis, that's funneh."

Next up, Elvis showed us East Coast Man--"This cat's Latin handle is Homo Surlius, and let me tell ya, he's a pistol," Elvis pointed and smiled. "We have a good ol' time hollerin' stuff like, Ôlearn to drive that piece of crap, you freak'n moron' and then we just stand back and enjoy. Man, that boy can curse. He's got gestures I don't even know what means. Keep the kids back away from the fence, ma'am. Thank you very much."

"Shame on you," Elvis shouted to the people crowded into the next cage beyond the sign that read Homo Unethicus--Olympic Committee Man. "Actually, I don't know what to say about these folks," Elvis explained, "they're not even part of the exhibit, they just ran out of room at the jail. You know, now that I look back on it, I can't believe I actually looked another man square in the eye and sang, ÔYou're the cutest jailbird I ever did see.' What the hell was I think'n."

Just as I was being roused from my sleep, Elvis had one last Homo Sapien exhibit to show us, it was a huge enclosure that only had a couple of embarrassed looking inhabitants--the sign on the fence read Homo Moronus--Stupid Man. Elvis explained that all this space was being reserved for the individuals who donate their own money to Orrin Hatch's Presidential campaign. (Mark my words folks--Orrin's not running for president--he's running for vice president. Save your money.)

In any case, I was awakened from my slumber because another round of spades was about to commence. What a great vacation, what great in-laws--I did nothing but read, sleep, play cards, and hide. God bless the Jenkins' for not expecting a damn thing more than that.