Wannabe model for Kohl's menswear or that guy you don't want contacting your daughter through MySpace (the biologically-natural red eye should be a very strong clue)? Comments, opinions, derision welcome.

So I had an opportunity to witness history in the making this past Wednesday...

... and I felt it was only fair to share this non-existent honor with my loyal constituency.

Now, when I mention the phrase "history in the making," only one name should instantly pop into your head. That's right ...

Wisconsin Governor Jim Doyle!

If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm being monstrously facetious here. Gov. Jim Doyle means so astonishingly little to me that I don't even know for sure if his first name is Jim. Not only am I too lazy to take the five seconds to scan the intraweb and confirm his Christian moniker, but I also do not care. I very strenuously do not care.

NOTE: I espouse some opinions in the following section that might be construed as political/ideological beliefs. If you prefer to ignore this kind of nonsense and get to the heart of my actual entry -- and no one will blame you in the slightest -- kindly scroll down to the section following the row of asterisks.

For those of you lucky enough not to reside in the justifiably underrated Badger State, Jim Doyle is our requisite chubby, balding, bland, easily forgettable gubernatorial representative. He was voted into office several years ago by a teachers' union so lazy that they make yours truly look like an Amish workaholic. You see, our teachers were/are upset over what they consider to be their too-low-to-live-like-upper-middle-class-citizens salary status, unlike every other American teacher in the history of this nation. Being the ignoramus that I am, I always assumed that teachers chose to become educators for the opportunity to share the gift of knowledge with the pint-size representatives of the next generation. On the contrary, I am reminded time and time again that people become teachers solely on account of the paycheck.

Which, apparently, will forever be too small.

How interesting. I think it is cruel that this world refuses to inform potential teachers of the relatively unimpressive wages they stand to make upon their release into the real world. If only television, movies, magazines, newspapers, books, the internet, and every other form of easily-accessible public communication could somehow let them know -- on a continuous basis -- that the field of education is a not entirely financially lucrative one. But alas, year after year, hundreds of these poor, hopeful, idealistic young educators enter the playing field with aspirations of attaining limitless monetary glory. Instead, they must settle for standard wages doing what they were trained (and presumably wanted) to do, supplemented by three measly months off every year. And a Winter Break. And a Spring Break. And various holidays of secular and religious import. And closing for snow days (yes, these even occur in your warmer states, such as Georgia. Hell, they occur there even more frequently then in Wisconsin! How can you not love this crazy country?). And "in-school teacher meetings," which one imagines are very ominous, very pointless, or both.

Okay, so I'm coming down pretty brutally against the undisputed Queens of Whining, the teachers' union, but really. You originally chose to become a teacher because you truly believed in the power, purpose, and importance of education, or because you were too incompetent to cut it as a professional musician/athlete/actor/novelist/scientist/businessperson/pundit/ geometric consultant. And then, suddenly, the unimpressive salary becomes your lifelong obsession and bitching point. If you were so interested in making gobs of money, why not explore the fields of, say, finance? Or business? Or anything, anything else?

CLUELESS TEACHER: But I want to get paid millions of dollars annually doing what I love to do!

Yeah, well, if I could make a yearly income in excess of $1.8 billion for a job as Jessica Biel's vibrating chair/bedspread, I think I'd be handing in my fishtank-cleaning club membership card first thing Monday morning. But you know what? People don't get paid to do what they love to do (unless you went to Harvard and your overrated prick friends and alumni can place you in any "career" you'd like). That's one of the countless reasons why this planet sucks mounds of turkey shittles. So accept the perfectly normal wages that you knew you were going to get, dry your eyes, get back to work, and shut the fuck up already.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The teachers of Wisconsin elected Doyle after ousting Republican walking turd, Scott McCallum (spelling? Who gives a shit. I don't imagine even he gives a shit). For the record, McCallum had this governor thing tied up in a pretty little bow and handed to him on a silver platter by Tommy Thompson, one of the most popular rulers of the upper Midwest region for the past umpteen years. And ole personality-free McCallum went and chucked it all by pissing off the surprisingly effective teachers' union (who I only wish would devote as much of their boundless energy to the actual job of teaching as they do to bemoaning their pay status). And so we got Doyle. Who promptly went about gutting the education program, forcing one of my college friends out of her teaching job.

This is called cruel irony, and it is much funnier in works of fiction than in real life.

In actuality, I don't mind Doyle any more than I minded McCallum or Thompson. I am not one of those viciously narrow-minded, ignorant ideologues found on both sides of the political aisle who believes that "things were so much better when my party's candidate was in power." In fact, as an embittered independent, my preferred candidate will never be in power, so things will always suck for me. And you. You just won't admit it.

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So there I am at work, half-heartedly washing my hands -- er, I mean, strenuously sterilizing my hands in accordance with biological safety guidelines, when my good (still single) buddy Grubs informs me that the staff of the W.A.T.E.R. institute (seriously. That's what it's called. I love it. I really do) will be renaming the famous EPA boat, the Neeskay, later that day. As it turns out, she was completely wrong, as women are wont to be. In point of fact, the oddly-named but uber-cool-looking Neeskay will keep its stupid name. What was, in fact, "going down" was the naming of an entirely new seafaring vessel, destined to traverse the Wisconsin waterways in an effort to, uh, I think, er, mumblemumblemumble.

Look, I don't know, all right? Hell, I didn't know until earlier this week that the notorious Neeskay was a vessel operated by the Environmental Protection Agency. If I had known that, I would have scuttled it months ago. Those fuckers at the DNR are anal-retentive dickheads. Tell me where to put my gravel? Fuck you!

(Those last couple of comments should make no sense to anyone outside of my immediate family. And even with them it'll be touch-and-go.)

Now then, the illustrious name chosen for the boat scheduled for, uh, naming? Why, the Gaylord Nelson, of course.

You see, when you die in the state of Wisconsin, and if you were, in life, considered something of a "big cheese" -- *hold for polite laughter* -- it is considered customary to name an extremely ugly little red-and-green boat after you. If your name just happens to include the word "gay" somewhere in it, this is considered an especially fortuitous added bonus.

The Gaylord Nelson. It's not even worth the time it would take to call that name gay.

Anyway, we were "invited" to attend this premiere gala event by means of a plain sheet of paper located well below eye level on one of the side doors allowing entry to the building ... and the exact location of the ceremony wasn't even printed on it. Still, when noon rolled around, Grubs reliably bitched at me until I was forced to accompany her on a complete tour of the premises in search of Doyle -- or Doylie, as I have suddenly decided to call him -- and company.

We found him about fifteen minutes later under a tent located at the very edge of Lake Michigan, mere feet away from a well-protected nesting pair of Canada geese (Editor's Note: Canada geese are so rare in Wisconsin that every effort is made to ensure their safety. I'm kidding, of course. These nasty fucking oversized pigeons are everywhere. Also, be sure to refer to this species incorrectly as "Canadian" geese in the presence of touchy ornithologists when at all possible. This really ruffles their feathers). It was a beautiful day out, though you wouldn't tell it by the grim, humorless expressions on the face of Doylie's security detail. Homely assholes in suits too nice for the fellas wearing them, these jokers eyed Grubs and me with all the suspicious scrutiny expected of a pair of young, clean-cut Americans wearing pale blue scrubs with absolutely no means of concealing effective weaponry of any conceivable kind. You'd think their attention would have been drawn instead to the harbor on the opposite side of the bay, a dockyard consisting of dilapidated, interchangeable warehouses seemingly designed for the express purpose of concealing a starry-eyed, Jodie Foster-enamored nutjob with a high-powered hunting rifle.

Of course, it would have to be explained to said potential assassin just who in the hell Jim Doyle was, and at that point one would be confronted by nothing more than a slightly quizzical stare, so the whole thing would be an exercise in futility. My point is, nobody cares enough about Wisconsin to bother eliminating its useless governor, so stop eyeballing me, meathead.

After being impatiently waved over to join the obsequious throng by one of Doylie's aides, Grubs and I stood dutifully outside the tent to "hear" the remainder of Tia (?) Nelson's speech about what an honor it was to have a miniature, Christmas-colored tugboat named after her dead activist/senator/Wisconsinite father. My apologies to any Gaylord fans out there for my seeming lack of respect for the deceased. It's simply that I never heard about the guy until he died. This startles and distresses me a bit, seeing as how he was considered quite the influential public figure in political and environmental matters in his day. Oh, well. I'll always have that wee ship as a constant reminder of my disrespectful ignorance. If only the name didn't make me snigger like a sixth-grader every time I heard it.

After Ms. (Helpful T.C.I. Tip: "Ms." is the only acceptable form of address to apply to any woman of leftward leanings) Nelson's astonishingly quiet speech -- after all, I've never met a subdued environmental activist -- a large woman presented her with a gift of a matted, framed photograph of her father's namesake vessel. She then handed it to Ms. Nelson in an elaborately wrapped gift box.

Note to potential giftgivers: If you're going to just announce the gift you plan on bestowing on someone in front of all and sundry, don't bother wrapping the damn thing. Also, don't give matted pictures of crappy-looking boats as gifts.

This same woman then introduced us to the man of the hour -- well, the living man of the hour -- Governor Jimbo Doylie! Huzzah! After housting his heavy frame awkwardly from his chair, Doylie treated his wide-eyed listeners to a rousing speech about nothing I can clearly remember. It ended with an ass-kissing, grandstanding bit where he signed into "law" the donation of several acres or so as use for natural preservation purposes. Hopefully the birdlovers of Wisconsin can see to it that at least a portion of this land is put aside to help rebuild our waning Canada goose population. At last count, only 55 billion such waterfowl remained to befoul the pristine lawns of our fine state.

Not-remotely-well-known Channel 12 reporter Kai Reed was spotted by Grubs lurking about the outskirts of the ceremony, not writing anything down and nowhere near any cameraman that I could see. Maybe it was her day off and she just wanted to spend it at some smelly lakeside, I don't know. In any case, she was tramping about the grounds in stiletto heels and a red leather trenchcoat. You know, I always find it intriguing that our local reporters and anchorwomen find it necessary to deck themselves out like supermodels when they are all so completely and hopelessly unattractive.

Except for Toya Washington, also of Channel 12. That chick is smoking. Keep up the fine journalistic work, you Nubian goddess.

I forgot to mention the grand unveiling of the new boat's name, which consisted of removing a large piece of white paper from the bow of the ship and the blowing of foghorns up and down the harbor to herald the presence of the new kid on the block. It is my very strong opinion that this naming ceremony was held for the express purpose of allowing the Neeskay and friends to blow their damn horns for five straight minutes. An impressive experience. If absolutely everything impresses you, that is.

After all this grandeur, Grubs and I got bored -- moreso -- and wandered back inside. We could have gone to a luncheon hosted inside the building, but the thought of watching Doylie scarf down plates of cocktail wieners sounded slightly less appealing than euthanizing scores of innocent baby zebrafish (don't ask. I do what I do and I go home, all right?). Grubs, however, who has no friends and considers Sheboygan a hotbed of excitement, wouldn't stop babbling about her brush with history for the remainder of my shift.

Just kidding. She was actually babbling about something else entirely. I think. I wasn't really listening.

In closing, I'd still rather have a Canada goose on my lawn than a member of the teachers' union.
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DID YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA?: Wisconsin's nickname is The Badger State in tribute to our once-booming mining industry. You see, visitors from nearby states would often mistake our filthy, phlegmatic miners, emerging as they would from various large holes in the ground, for the indigenous musteline carnivore, the badger. The badger is a repulsive, stupid, smelly, viciously small-minded, unrepetantly obnoxious creature with few, if any, positive characteristics.

The people of Wisconsin, in their collective wisdom, decided that this would be the perfect beast to adopt as a mascot for our homely state.

And they honestly wonder why people mock us without mercy.

So I went to the zoo on Sunday...

... and since I got in free, I thought I would relive this magical experience and bring along all of you, my cheap, faceless cynickites, at no charge.

I did pay $8 for parking, however, so we'll have to work out an appropriate way in which each of you can reimburse me.

How on earth did The Cynical Idealist manage to slip into southeastern Wisconsin's premier collection of exotic wild beasts forced into undersized exhibits for the amusement of fat, homely children of all ages without paying, you ask? Simple. Mrs. The Cynical Idealist read somewhere that it was Family Free Day at the Milwaukee County Zoo, as sponsored by Some Stupid Capitalist Conglomerate.

INSENSITIVE CYNICKITE: But Matthew, you and your wife hardly constitute a family. Christ, you don't even own a dog.

Good point, dicklick. However, I believe the "Family Free" appellation was chosen based solely on its alliterative merit, and therefore selfish DINKs and hellbound single mothers are as welcome to gape dumbly at kangaroos as your more acceptable nuclear family of overfed automatons.

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So ... what kind of people can one expect to encounter on free admission days at your local, bureaucratic menagerie?

1.) Cheap S.O.B.'s: My wife does not enjoy spending money. This works out fairly well for us since the wages I bring home from my glorified acting/writing hobby and lucrative stint as a zebrafish caretaker make a mockery of the word "income." Unfortunately, this also means I am resigned to choking down Wal-Mart's store brand of fruit bars and visiting the zoo along with the indigent population of South Milwaukee.

2.) Minorities: You can call me whatever you want, but "wrong" ain't one of your choices. Nobody appreciates free shit like minorities. And if the White Devil wants to let the oppressed races feed dirty pellets to disturbingly small goats -- free of charge -- you can damn well bet your Great-Aunt Enid's pewter spoon collection that those greedy buggers will line up fifty deep to feed the fuck out of those mutant farm critters.

TANGENT ALERT!: Uh, memo to hateful minority groups ... I know you've been striving long and hard to find an acceptably insulting derogatory term for the white man -- cracker, honky, whitey, Casper, Republican, boss -- but "White Devil?" I'm sorry, but "White Devil" sounds cool. Like, 'wish-I-had-that-nickname-throughout-high-school' cool. Really, mega-uber-cool. So don't call us that. Cause I don't think it's having the intended effect.

3.) Republicans: If there is one kind of person on this planet who can enjoy not paying for something even more than a minority, it is a card-carrying member of the Grand Old Party. Republicans love dollars. The only thing they love more than dollars is not spending those dollars if they can possibly help it. On anything. Now, combine the concept of not injecting money into the local economy with the smug sense of superiority a reactionary conservative receives when gazing down at an imprisoned, defenseless Thomson's gazelle, and you've got the ideal RNC-approved family (i.e. one male father, one female mother, children not to exceed three in number) outing.

Unless Dad can kiss his boss's ass enough to score free tickets to a Brewers game. Cause free sports events featuring drug-addled young men in skintight pants trump everything in a Republican's family day wet dream.

Yeah, I don't get it either.

4.) Kids: Those psychotic motherfuckers are everywhere during free admission days. I don't think they even bring their parents. I think they get together with the other neighborhood kneebiters, down a couple hundred pixie sticks between 'em, then run the 17 miles to the zoo in just under 45 minutes. Nobody notices that these little bastards are without supervision because we all assume the nearest exhausted, heavyset adult is the asshole incapable of controlling their unruly offspring. And that tubby babymaker is too tired dealing with their own shit to notice your dirty looks.

This all works out perfectly for the kids in question. That is, until they make their way to the massively-overpriced gift shops around 3pm and realize they can't buy that fucking pole with a crocodile head on top that snaps open and shut because they don't have any money, the useless, ungrateful little societal black holes. Nothing is sweeter to my ears than the plaintive wails of a spoiled, towheaded, ten-year-old ugmonkey whose daddy won't buy him that stuffed snow leopard he so desperately and irrationally craves. Welcome to capitalism, half-pint! HAHAHAHAHA!
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In a previous entry, I really laid into the stereotypical mobile turd dispensers that clog your average mall come the holiday season. Well, not only do you have several of these recyclable airsuckers to contend with in a relatively open air environment such as a zoological garden, but there are several new species to watch out for. And here they are. For reference.

1.) Bitch with stroller: I cannot tell you how many strollers I saw being pushed around that contained zero -- count 'em, ZERO -- children onboard. Oh, there were plenty of soft drink cans, foodstuffs, camera cases, and gift bags, but a startling absence of any child-type creature. Mind you, I'm sure Devon/Mason/Taylor/Jordan/Logan was off happily banging on the Boelen's python tank, but I also have a certain paranoid, but not unjustifiable, suspicion that some of these stroller jockeys are actually childless masterminds who rent those heel crushers simply for the sake of having an eight-foot-wide plow with which to clear a path through the unwashed masses. And for that ...

I applaud them. The clever little assburglars.

As for the actual parents with strollers, maybe we can work out some kind of mandatory driver's education class to be taken prior to hurtling unsteadily through the common throng like some inebriated forklift operator.

2.) Big black mama with kids of various ages: I actually have to admit that I like this zoo regular. Normally gregarious and good-natured, just watch her long enough and you can be sure that some errant member of her large brood will royally piss her the fuck off. And once that happens, just sit back and watch the free fireworks, folks! Cause, unlike her pussyfooting, ineffectual, permissive-parenting white counterparts, I can assure you that this badass will get to whalin' on her misbehaving miscreant with the unrelenting fury of an invading American armed force. And what voyeur doesn't love to watch an unrepetant public display of familial violence?

3.) The human ping-pong: Ye gods, is this guy a-fucking-nnoying. The human ping pong hasn't even the remotest concept of personal space or his/her proximity to other objects, animate or in. They are busy looking at all the pretty animals, not where they're going, and they bounce from person to person without so much as an "Excuse me" or "Whoops! Sorry about that" or "Please forgive me, I'm just a dick." Now, some of your HPP's are simply lost in a benevolent daze, like my wife, and don't mean any harm in their careless meandering. Others are outright self-involved egotists who can't be bothered to observe even the most basic niceties such as, oh, say, not fucking touching me. Ever. Fortunately, the vast majority of HPP's are noticably smaller than I am, and bumping into me is not far removed from slamming into a retaliatory brick wall for them.

4.) Ugly people: For those of you from other parts of this fine country, or, indeed, from other countries entirely (Benvenuto, Citizens of the World with an Irrational Hatred of All Things American! Go fuck yourselves! Arrivederci!), Wisconsin is the North American continent's dumping ground of hideously repulsive westerners. Seriously. I am not exaggerating here. We Wisconsinites are, without question, truly and grossly repugnant creatures, and the fact that we're even allowed to exist on this planet says a great deal about the success of the liberal's Pity Party movement. And we're only getting uglier.

Don't believe me? Visit our zoo. I can guarantee you that the warthogs won't be the vilest things you see on display here.

Okay, so a large number of Wisconsin residents are irredeemably dogfaced. That's all well and good as far as I'm concerned. I mean, you tend to acclimate yourself to this 'ugly' realization as soon as you're old enough to see what a really attractive person looks like once you venture down to Great America or, well, anywhere else on the planet. The problem I have is with two specific subsets of Ugly People:

The woman baring her midriff who should never -- EVER -- bare her midriff: Sweetheart, come on. Did you really fail to notice the seventy ripples of Ding-Dong-descended fat when you put on your two-year-old daughter's "I'm a Snotty Little Fucking Princess" T-shirt this morning? Of course you did. Therefore, I can only surmise that you're subjecting the civilized world to your voluminous folds of flab for one of two reasons: a.) you're an independent womyn who's proud of the way she looks and wants to thumb her nose at the unfair standards conventional society demands that its women live up to, in which case I think you'd be hard-pressed to find even the staunchest feminist to support your belly-busting wardrobe choices, or b.) you're hoping to land a man who likes his women on the 'not-ashamed-to-make-a-public-spectacle-of-herself' side. And this 'man' invariably turns out to be ...

The guy wearing a muscle shirt who doesn't possess the musculature to warrant wearing a muscle shirt: You all know this pint-size He-Man. He's usually pasty, dangerously malnourished, and tends to sport a mullet, unkempt facial hair, or both. And, of course, his licorice arms are dangling embarrassingly from beneath his 'muscle' tank top. Size Small, of course, which is STILL three sizes too big for this little feller. Guys, here's a simple rule of thumb to use before showing off what you believe to be your bulging biceps: If you can't bench press at least your own body weight for several reps, let's leave the muscle shirt for at-home use only, shall we? Because you probably don't have the muscle tone required to carry a coin purse let alone attract a member of the opposite sex (or same sex. Whatever floats your proverbial boat).

And for the record, this criteria does, in fact, entitle me to wear muscle shirts in full public view. I'll be looking for you, ladies.
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Since I'm on a roll with this list thing, why don't I keep it going by sharing a deep, personal recollection of the many of God's awe-inspiring creations that I encountered while strolling through an unnatural, man-made prison of our biological inferiors?

1.) Chickens: These were special chickens because they were gold-colored and had heavily-feathered feet. Ooooo!

2.) A rooster: Yes. An honest-to-gods rooster. He even crowed! Like every fucking rooster I've ever seen in my life! In or out of a zoo!

3.) The domestic cat: Oh, yeah. You read that right. There are people paying upwards of ten dollars, not including parking, to see a normal, pointless, domestic fucking goddamned housecat in a cage.

AN EXCLUSIVE T.C.I. TIP: If you go to your local rescue shelter, you can see them for free.

4.) Cows, pigs, and a horse: All there. All boring.

5.) The newly-renovated Big Cat "exhibit": When the Milwaukee County Zoo decides to remodel an outdated, poorly-designed animal enclosure, it ultimately translates to one thing and one thing only: "We're going to throw some rocks in there and paint a nice mural on the back wall."

Which they did. Bravo, wildlife lovers.

In their defense, at least they resisted the strong temptation to place a housecat in the Big Cat Building.

6.) Black rhinoceros (male): The black rhinoceros differs from its African brethren, the relatively placid white rhinoceros, in being far more standoffish, stubborn, bad-tempered, destructive, and prone to uncontrollable fits of violence.

There's a joke in there somewhere, but I'm not about to dig it out. Though I do feel a little guilty for always having preferred the white rhino to the black one.

In any case, the male black rhino at the M.C.Z. kicks ass. That fucker's got an anterior horn bigger than most of the kids staring at him, and isn't it nice to see an animal impressive enough to keep even the most obnoxious, undisciplined crapsack from thumping on the pane?

7.) The Reptile and Fish House: Dark, humid, and eerie, the reptile house is any truly heterosexual male's single favorite part of the zoo experience. Where else can you find spitting cobras, bone-crushing pythons, snake-necked terrapins, caimans suffering from ennui, Amazonian tetras larger than your wizened grandmother, and an octopus guaranteed to make the some chick in pink squeal "Eek! It's got so many legs!" all congregating in a young boy's glorious dream garden? Hell, this place is what my garage when I was eight-years-old would have looked like if I had lived in the tropics and had access to an extensive array of tranquilizing weaponry.

8.) Monkeys and Apes: Monkeys and apes bore the shit out of me. They always have, they always will. If I wanted to stare at an ape, I wouldn't leave my bathroom mirror in the morning. Or, better yet, I'd go to the nearest cafe and watch the zoo patrons shovel fries into their oral cavities with the use of their stubby opposable thumbs.

9.) Bears: Sleeping.

10.) Giraffes: They were "on vacation" in Ohio while their enclosure was being 'remodeled' (see #5 above). This begs a large number of questions, but I don't particularly feel like asking any of them.

11.) The Aviary: Interestingly, this was both the most fascinating part of our visit and the most depressing. The wetlands portion of the birdhouse is, along with the Amazon River basin section of the Reptile/Fish House, the closest the Milwaukee Zoo comes to low-level magnificence. The various storks and ibises on display were strenuously locating reeds and grasses to add to the nests they were building among the rock formations, not to mention combing the shores for food and tenderly grooming their mates. Informative, beautiful, and compelling ...

... until the fact strikes you that these poor bastards can't fly ten feet in a straight line without slamming into a sky-colored wall. I guess most visitors can get past the cruel irony of the most freedom-embracing nation in the world 'clipping the wings,' so to speak, of the masters of true flight, but it always leaves me feeling more than a little hypocritical and ashamed.

But mostly because it proves just what a big fucking pussy I must be.

12.) The Small Mammal House: Ahh, the human ping-pong's hallowed ground. For those of you who aren't aware, half of the small mammal house is composed of a black hallway with seriously confused nocturnal insectivores scrounging around under romantic blue lighting. That's right. The hallway is practically pitch black. You think you have trouble avoiding strollers in broad daylight? Just wait till you get to this ambulance chaser's paradise. Still, the bushbaby was bouncing around like a pot-smoking paranoiac, and bats are never not cool, so that was a minor highlight of our visit.

13.) Moose: Despite the fact that the artiodactyls grazing in the caribou enclosure were clearly marked as such, not less than three people passed by helpfully informing others that the "caribou" we were peacefully observing were actually called "moose." I sincerely hope these same eminent zoologists took the time to cross to the opposite side of the road to correctly identify the poor, confused moose-like creatures lurching about in the enclosure marked "Moose."

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And how about the other, non-tetrapodcentric portions of the zoo?

1.) The Dairy Farm: Believe it or not, the bleachers facing the dairy milking station were filled to capacity as my wife and I walked by on our to get ice cream -- er, I mean, a manly dish of roast anaconda innards.

"People, people," I had the strong urge to yell in the crowded dairy simulator, "you live in Wisconsin, for Christ's sake. You really have no idea how this whole milk thing works? And, barring that, you really care? Oh my God, leave the barn 'exhibit' immediately and go see the goddamned jaguar, you sad little urbanites! They tend to be much rarer in these parts than, say, a cow."

2.) The gift shops: When I was a child, this was one of the best parts of getting to go to the zoo. As I have matured, it is comforting to know that this has not changed. I still like the gift shops, although my child-like awe is now tempered by the brutal constraints of a limited budget. Therefore, it was with a heavy heart that I left the zoo today without a rhino-emblazoned shot glass or a street sign helpfully warning that rhinos were, indeed, likely to cross at any time.

3.) The zoo train: Uh, yeah, we didn't go on the zoo train.

4.) Eating a honey mustard chicken, ham, and swiss wrap at The Chancery in Mequon afterwards: Where chickens and pigs truly belong ...

TANGENT ALERT!: It has very recently come to my attention that the second 'H' in "The Chancery" is a rather vital consonant in that phrase. I don't recommend leaving it out.
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So there you have it, my faithful, patient cynickites. Doesn't it feel as though you'd been to the zoo with me?

UNAPPRECIATIVE CYNICKITE (shrugging shoulders): I 'unno.

Well, do you feel listless, unfulfilled, and maybe a little peckish?

UNAPPRECIATIVE CYNICKITE: Yeah, I guess.

Then my work here is done. Prick.



In closing, I like the zoo. Just not most of it.
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THE CYNICAL IDEALIST'S HATEFUL HINT #231 (Kids' Edition!): Hey, kids! Is that stupid polar bear just taking a nap when you want him to get off his ass and jump in the pool? Or how about all those mean-looking fishies and snakes and alligators who just won't do anything? And who does that mangy lion think he is, not roaring, the lazy sissy?

Well, here are several T.C.I.-approved methods of gaining the attention of any calm, relaxed, inoffensive animal not pulling its weight when its sole purpose on this plane of existence is to entertain you and your spoiled, half-literate twin brothers, Montana and Dallas. It's really quite simple.

If you can reach the glass separating you from the animal's enclosure ... POUND THE EVER-LIVING FUCK OUT OF IT! The stunned dumb beast will have no choice but to react to that brilliant maneuver. And if you're really lucky, the stupid thing might just up and die of stress and shock. Yay!! You're the Great White Hunter, only much lazier and less impressive.

And if only a fence, moat, or trench keeps you from being rightfully trampled by a herd of vengeful elands, use that shrill, unpleasant, nasally voice your chosen god "blessed" you with. SCREAM AT THE POOR DAMN BASTARDS! If history has taught us nothing else, it is that the world will drop everything and listen when being barked at by a bratty, effeminate boy from across the way.

And if all else fails, throw things at them. Throw soft foodstuffs such as marshmallows only if you are a little pansy bitch. Rocks, sticks, Hot Wheels cars, strollers, digital cameras, and weaker siblings make far more effective attention-getting devices. Tossing your little brother into the polar bear den, in particular, should make for an unforgettable future family story.

However, keep that whole sticky "What goes around, comes around" saying in the back of your mind. Because if Uncle Matthew ever catches one of you trying to nap quietly or eat fruit roll-ups in peace or watch your SpongeBob undisturbed, fully expect me to rap you roughly on the side of the head, scream profanities into your face, and throw Tonka trucks at your teeth.

"Look! Look, now the little shit's moving! I told you this stuff works!"