The Smokey Journalist

I feel it is time to part from my usual predictions of the future and romantic pondering of the present for now. All of that gives me a headache. Today I would like to relate you some of the past, although it gives me an even bigger headache.

As I’ve said previously, before I settled down in the forest with Bakey Man as my transcriber and assistant in living, I was a journalist in the human world. For reasons I will not delve into here, at this time I looked very much like a human and could pass as one during everyday interactions and business transactions. However, if I happened to take off my pants anyone in the room would realize that I was indeed not human, so as a result I was resigned to be celibate. This was unfortunate, because there were many women on the newspaper crew that were sexually pleasing on multiple levels.

On a daily basis I would travel liberally to different parts of the United States and conduct interviews, attend events and observe them, and engage in research at prominent institutions. I would then, like any reporter, compile the data I had assembled, and organize it into a satisfactory report or article. Numerous people liked my writing, numerous people thought I was a genius. But as I began to look more and more like a donkey, I had to give up the profession. My staff at the paper begged and pleaded, but I tightened my hood and waved them goodbye.

In my long career I had written on a plethora of topics, but most often my writing centered around what was to me a crucial issue: fire and smoke safety. I had discovered what the situation was like in many American homes. Five or six people, living under one roof, with often no properly assembled fire alarms. Often a few people in the house were smokers as well, and a good number of basements had improper ventilation for their wood stoves.

But it was no real loss for me. By the time my face had changed over fully to that of a mule, I really had no sentimental attachment to humans and their homes. Let them burn if they like ciggies and leave them out, let the smoke rise and choke the lungs. Sprinkler systems are being built into homes right and left, and I just laugh. If I was out in the world today I would be writing a large, generous article on these sprinkler systems, praising them for their safety innovations. But now that I sit planted at a distance and see the home with its ludicrous shrub bushes and fence, I don’t care if it burns to the ground. That’s what you get. That’s just nature bringing it down to the natural state. The dirt is the only real home for me.