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...and the Feathered Platypus replied, 'Karl Marx?'

...and the Feathered Platypus replied, 'Karl Marx?'

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Published by Patrick M. Arthur
Why is there a seeming apathy on the part of the Left Youth, despite being born of a Flower generation built upon activism?
Why is there a seeming apathy on the part of the Left Youth, despite being born of a Flower generation built upon activism?

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Published by: Patrick M. Arthur on Apr 01, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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…And the Feathered Platypus replied, ‘Karl Marx?’Despite public misconception, platypi actually do not havefeathers, although one long glance with squashed eyeballsshould reasonably lead you to ask your respective creativedeities, “Well, why the hell not?” First, I suppose, they don’treally talk, either, nor do they constantly muse on what thelate Mr. Marx might have to say on any given global topicdiscussed, ad nauseum, in some of today’s left-handedcircles.In actuality, flat-footed platypode, the only egg-layingmammals, trick disbelieving predators into a completecerebral meltdown, defended by only that most classic of animal world Halloween costumes, a Daffy Duck customGroucho mask taped to the ass-half of a hairless beaver.The true wilderness pride of Australia exists blissfullyunaware of both danger and mirrors. The male of thespecies releases venom from a secret pouch stashed behindtheir webbed rear paw, for seemingly no particular reason
other than they want to. Anyone who has actually seen oneof these majestic creatures, once forcefully convinced thatDoctor Frankenstein has
turned to taxidermy, mustwonder why did evolutionary architects turn conservative atthe crazy idea of sticking a feather in a tidy bobby cap,calling it no weirder than before, and crowning the breast-stroking Platypus the heighth of all Darwinian musings? Whydoes the progressive birthday parties all have to end withpinning the feather on the platypus, the one final element tomake perfect this noble beast?For a writer without the burdens of employment to occupy awandering mind, answering your own philosophicalquestions can be a dangerous assignment to accept. If offered a dangerous alternative option, say, to insteadinfiltrate a lion’s den wearing only safari clothing selectedfrom Lady Gaga’s walk-in meat closet, you may just be wiserto start Googling generous life insurance agents in your stateoffering an ‘intentional pet death’ clause with every newpolicy. Wrestling giant, man-eating felines, at least, is astraightforward proposition—a sporting death match
between two ‘top of the food chain’ candidates leaves littleroom for interpretation, as opposed, say, to one inebriatedand poorly educated man versus the swirling bottomless wellof esoteric-ish ideas churning in their first-class vortex-within-a-cortex. If I don’t know what the hell I’m talkingabout, how am I supposed to know what the hell to talkabout?It is with sincere regret with which I inform you that an entirefactory of lucid-dream assembly workers were laid off overthe preceding mental gangbang. Don’t worry about me,though, I sleep fine. Nightly forced marriages to FreddyKruger ain’t so bad, but his insistence on honeymoon nightfisting
starting to chaff the bum. Regardless, those union-endorsed nap breaks were costing too much…mentalcurrency, you know? There’s a national deficit to worryabout, I’ve been told, and I am, if nothing else, a good‘Merican.***Dumb looking critters aside, the actual question at hand has

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