This mööse is completely trolleyed and is making unwanted advances to its neighbour at the bar. Examination of the closed-circuit-woodcut footage suggests that it has been drinking mööscatel.Such scenes have become distressingly common in recent years since an earlier government liberalised the laws to allow mööse more access to alcohol. The talk at the time was all about "fostering a mature drinking culture", and comparisons were made with the pavement cafes of Saskatchewan and Estonia where mööse learn to treat alcohol as just one aspect of a laid-back life-style rather than simply as a way to get shit-faced.
A month or two ago the present gubblement were making noises about restricting the range of liquor outlets and raising the drinking age for møøse. Since then, however, lobbyists from the industry have had a few quiet words and mentioned the existence of candid photographs of cabinet ministers at the Nanny State (New Zealand's most exclusive disciplinary institution and animal-husbandry school).
So now they are all "the bad behaviour of one or two Cervidae should not be allowed to spoil things for the responsible majority."Also, it is a matter of educating the public.
12 comments:
Indeed. Who amongst us could heave the first stone without a guilt conscience?
~
Moose, elk, bovines drinking together, is it an ilk thing?
animal-husbandry school
You guys have to go to school? I thought it came naturally.
Yes, I really did just say that.
In the early afternoon, the bar was mostly empty. Tall ceilings trapped cigarette smoke, and the juke box only emphasized the oppressive quiet. A few people sat, drinking industriously. They were not there to socialize, nor were they seeking the comfort of their fellows.
I walked in and sat down at the end of the bar. I pulled the fedora off my head and asked for Sailor Jerry's. A double, keep 'em coming.
The late afternoon light cast beams through the dust, and washed out the silent images on the tv above the bar. A few stools down, an angry former mayor desultorily lit matches, one after the other, in between shots of well vodka. There was a dozen people, two dozen stories and the dissolute anger was palpable.
The stool creaked noticeably when he sat down. I finished my drink and motioned for another as I looked at my new companion. A Mööse, of course, ripe with the smell of musk, tattered antlers showing the costs of age, his eyes sunken and angry....
Oh, fuck it.
I don't think I can do this. I don't know shit from mooses, and I'm pretty sure you can't learn from them over drinx in a bar.
Somebody step in and finish this apocryphal tale...
The moose waited. I got up. We looked at each other. I said, you are no moose. She said, you are no gentleman.
We fought. It rained. On waking I felt magenta bruises. I lit a cigarette.
If not for her I would have been home long ago.
It was Sunday night, the clock read 6.00pm.
tatorpen, the other spud gun.
Then I ate the moose's brains.
...always with the brain eating...
conites, fake evenings.
Trolleyed? They have moose on wheels in your country?
...always with the brain eating...
Zombies have often been noted for our ability to maintain mental focus.
Zombies need PR.
Trolleyed?
Means "to have eyes like those of a troll".
Nah is French for troll sex.
feticker, well yeah it's that bad.
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