The cult section of the literary world



Behold, my adopted family. They took me in when no one else wanted me, saved me from a wanton and unchecked life of crime and addiction on the streets. For their intervention, I am forever grateful. They made me into the man I am today.

I’d like to take the time to tell you a little about these blubbery angels, from left to right:

ROGER lacks in the tusk-department, but his sheer intelligence more than compensates. He’s the only walrus I know who can solve a Rubik’s Cube—with his mind. He’s an ace at Chinese Checkers, too.

TOM is a total heartthrob. His tusks are so thick and long; all the cows love him. They tell me his pinkish splotches are especially attractive, and that his vibrissae tickles their faces in magical, impossible to imitate ways.

DANNY is a giver. His floe always has room for one more. He’d take the hide off his back and fashion it into a coat for you, if he could. Were he starving, he’d surrender his last bite to a needy other. He’s just that kind of walrus.

(*NOTE: I give these guys anglicized names, as what they call themselves cannot be uttered in my native tongue.)

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