Category Archives: Animals

Magic Dog Anus

…let’s face it, we are kind of the top-of-the-line model when it comes to land-mammals. Dextrous, intelligent, reasoning, with all sorts of fancy capabilities, but “He” didn’t give us the magic self-cleaning arsehole that he fitted on dogs!…

If you want to read more about the wonders of the dog’s anus you’ll have to consult page 287 of Mr Bison’s Journal



Handy Job

I’m not quite sure how the subject came up. There we were, sitting in a cozy restaurant in Belgium, with low ceilings and candlelight, enjoying one of those meals that you just don’t get in St.Louis. It was a place run by a husband and wife; he cooked while she ran the front of the house. There was no menu – when we arrived she just explained what they were going to make for us and checked that everything would be OK. (Presumably they’ll make accommodations if something would cause you to heave.) Outside the rain fell steadily, and through it, illuminated by evening streetlamps, we could pick out the classic architecture of the town square.

Early on the conversation was polite but hesitant; this was a business dinner, with seven or eight of us gathered. Gradually the conversation shifted, however, and I found myself relating the story of a television program I saw many years ago in which zookeepers were harvesting semen from a gorilla in captivity. I pointed out that the process involved sedating the gorilla and then inserting a large stainless steel vibrator in its anus to cause ejaculation. Two things struck me: firstly, a gorilla has a really tiny dick considering the rest of its physiology; secondly, there didn’t appear to be much in the process for the gorilla, who was presumably going to wake up with a hangover, a sore arse and an empty sac. None of us want that to happen, do we? What do you think goes through the poor beast’s mind after that? “Jesus, I must have hit the fermented bamboo juice a bit hard last night. What the hell’s wrong with my arse? Oh fuck! Who was I with? Oh man, does that mean I’m gay now? I hope no video ends up on YouTube.”

I only verbalized the first part of that story in the restaurant, not the imagined thoughts of the awakening primate, but you have to be careful with stories like that because if you misjudge the mood of the group you can suddenly end up with an awkward silence, and everyone studying the menu intently. Since there was no menu in this place we would have been screwed. Fortunately my counterpart came back with an even better story.

Apparently his company used to be in the pig genetics business. Like most industrialized companies they had a very active health and safety program, involving sharing learnings and improvements between different sites that would make the workplace safer. In one instance there had been a problem with the people who had to harvest the sperm from the hogs ending up with carpal tunnel syndrome, which had resulted in the development of a new tool or gadget to help them avoid this. Carpal tunnel? You mean they did it by hand?

Harvesting sperm sounds like it’s a noble and scientifically justified endeavor, but at the end of the day you know that you’re basically a pig-wanker. How do you live with yourself if your job involves giving hand relief to swine on a daily basis? What do you say when your kid asks what you did today? More to the point, what’s the going rate for jerking off a hog? Because I have to believe that there would be more money in pulling off people, and probably less chance of being trampled in the mud while you’re doing it.

Back in the restaurant, three excellent courses were followed by a fine dessert. Although the rain was still falling when we eventually stepped out into the cobbled street to make our way back to the car park, life didn’t seem too bad. The weekend was coming, and there is, at present, no prospect that I will have to wank off any pigs in my immediate future. And I’m not hung like a gorilla either. Happy days!

Copyright © 2009 Edward Bison


What is it with all the sodding wild animals trying to live in my house?

It’s Saturday morning and I should be taking it easy, right? I know I have to go and work out at 10:30 – it’s chest day, which means lots of bench press and incline press. Last night was soccer, and the satisfaction of having won (and scored a goal) is tempered with the perpetual joint pain that comes from trying to act at least ten years younger than I am. Rolling out of bed causes the emission of a sudden and involuntary “fucking hell!” and the kind of stagger downstairs more usually associated with drunks and extras in zombie movies.

Read more about my house being taken over by animals in Mr Bison’s journal, a laugh out loud book.

Animal Sex

One thing about being on vacation is that you tend not to keep up with the news. As a result I’ve missed all sorts of important world events. For instance in Tacoma, Washington, it was reported that a man has been accused of having sex with a goat and will be arraigned on an animal cruelty charge. Apparently a witness saw 63-year-old Arthur Lawton having sex with a goat on May 8th in a barn at Eatonville’s Pioneer Farm Museum where he worked. He claims to have been trying to milk the goat. (I assume he had his pants down at the time, which might make his defense somewhat problematic, unless he’s invented a new milking technique).

What caught my attention is that this bloke is the second person charged in the county since they made bestiality a crime (in response to the recent death by perforated colon of a man who had sex with a horse). The first man was accused of having sex with the family pit bull, but was acquitted in May. Given that there are people out there who want to have sex with animals (I’m sorry, but they clearly exist), just what would make you look at a pit bull and think “Hmmm. Think I’ll take a shot at that”? I mean, it’s a pit bull. Wouldn’t you be at all concerned that it might rip off your dick and balls?

But that looks positively healthy when compared with the notion of encouraging a horse to fuck you in the arse. Just what diseased fucking planet would you have to come from for that to seem like a good way to spend an evening. “It’s only CSI re-runs again tonight. I’m bored of Gil Grissom. Guess I’ll go get a horse to fuck me in the shitter.” And his buddy was videotaping the whole thing! That would make for a great send-off at the funeral wouldn’t it? “Let’s share in Chuck’s final moments. Oooh! That had to hurt. Goodbye Chuck. We’ll miss you.”

Before the demise of our unfortunate horse-buggered friend, bestiality wasn’t illegal in Washington. Only thirty-three states ban sex with animals, although you stand to be accused of animal cruelty if you attempt to shag smaller animals. It seems that in the horse case it was hard to prove that the horse was in any way harmed, which might not be the case if “Chuck’s” sexual partner had been, say, a chicken. No, seriously, there are people out there who want to screw chickens.

Apparently incidence of animal sex is much lower in cities than the countryside, although that may have more to do with opportunity than anything else – either less opportunity to meet girls or more opportunity to meet attractive goats, I don’t know which. All things considered it makes me want to go back to my vacation. It does remind me, though, of the old joke about the bloke who goes to the doctor because he’s started having sex with a sheep. The doctor asks “Is it a male sheep or a female?” The bloke replies “Female of course. What do you think I am – queer or something?” Apparently not in Tacoma…

Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Bastard Animals

Suburban St.Louis isn’t exactly the wilderness, so I’m constantly amazed by the sheer number of animal species trying to get into my house, eat my house, eat me and/or crap all over everything. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not like I’m in Australia and have to fight off three venomous snakes, two poisonous spiders and a marsupial before breakfast, so excuse me if I sound like a pussy to any antipodeans out there. It’s just the sheer volume of the intrusions that’s getting old.

While woodpeckers and termites eat your house, the deer will eat everything outside your house. Your garden is just an extended deer buffet. “Deer resistant” plants simply mean that the deer don’t eat them first but save them for dessert. And to add insult to injury they run out in front of your car in the evening with their white arses flashing, just daring you to run them down and send your car to the shop for expensive repairs.

If you sit outside and try to enjoy your plants in the few days before they get eaten you’d better do it in the evening so that the St.Louis summer heat and humidity doesn’t kill you. Unfortunately that’s when the mosquitoes come out and feast on your blood. I have a bat that lives under the deck and passes the time converting mosquitoes into a neat pile of bat shit. Unfortunately it might also carry rabies, so it’s kind of a death-sentence-in-waiting in my garden. Every so often you get a plague of some other plant-eating bastard pest. We had bagworms a few years ago which meant millions of caterpillars in silken bags hanging in the trees and eating all the leaves, before falling all over the deck and drive where they’d get walked into the house on your shoes. Nearly killed my trees – the only consolation was that if you stepped on them their entire insides would shoot out of their arse in a very satisfactory green spurt.

Bagworms won’t eat your grass, however, so instead I have moles to take care of fucking up my lawn. I have hunted them with a pitchfork and speared one, pulling its twitching carcass from the earth. This can make you feel guilty for a bit, but then another one moves in and continues turning your lawn into dust, so the sympathy tends to run short quickly. Then when I’m cutting the crap lawn I have to worry about a cloud of yellowjackets rising up from a hole in the ground and proceeding to sting me all over. Running into the house while performing a spastic dance to swat away all the insects while clawing off clothes to expose the ones stinging you from the inside really does wonders for your man-image.

Squirrels eat all the bird food that you put out to bribe the birds not to eat your house. Then they shit on your deck, dig up your plant pots and try to burrow into your walls. I once had a flying squirrel, a noctural bastard that invades your attic, usually in families of eight or more. The advice from the experts was not to try and trap it, because I wouldn’t be able to, but to call in an exterminator. I caught mine in a rat trap baited with peanut butter before it moved its family in, but it had already deposited enough shit in one corner to fertilize a golf course. It was, however, satisfying to carry its corpse to the trash can knowing that I would no longer be woken up at three in the morning by its scratching and running around.

Of course there are numerous bugs, mostly dead by the time I see them, but as the next periodic spraying by the pest controller gets closer there tend to be more live ones. Giant orange centipedes were the latest bathroom delight. We also had a couple of lizards – how the fuck do they get in the house? Obviously the bugs are a real draw, and I had half a mind to leave the lizards so they’d keep the bugs down but one more shriek from Mrs. Bison as a blue/green lizard crawled from the vent by her chair was enough to peruade me to evict them. She occasionally screams at other animals, but the best by far was a black and yellow salamander that crawled on her hand while she was planting daffodil bulbs. I thought she’d been stabbed!

Outside there are countless rabbits and chipmunks, as well as a raccoon that visits in the evening and climbs up to steal the bird food. These things are mostly harmless though. The coyote that came up into the garden a few weeks ago wasn’t – it looked ready to carry off a small child. Bastard mangy thing with yellow eyes, much bigger than I’d thought.

My favorite animal though is the venomous copperhead that took up residence last year in a patch of compost in my yard. It has everything I look for in a pet – it looks good, needs no care and maintenance and it won’t destroy my house. Just have to remember not to step on it…

Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Animal Blow Jobs: From the funniest book of 2012

I don’t know quite how the subject came up but I was sitting in a bar with a colleague yesterday and it occurred to me to wonder why it is that animals don’t engage in oral sex. The bar was (and presumably still is) in Shanghai, so I suppose I could blame it on jet lag – after all, I’d been here less than twenty-four hours…

Read the rest of this story in Mr Bison’s Journal, the best funny read of 2012.



Someone at work recently got bitten by a brown recluse spider. This isn’t a fun event, not something you look forward to. I don’t think the bite itself caused any real harm but the antibiotics they gave her fucked her up for a bit. I’ve seen pictures of the brown recluse, with its little violin pattern, but I bet I couldn’t spot a real one if you paid me. People have good reaon to fear the brown recluse (although not as much as, say, the funnel web spider in Australia, which might be lurking under your toilet seat, ready to bite you in the balls). Most people, however, have some fear of regular, harmless spiders as well.

I don’t mean that they scream and piss their pants in fear when they see one, I just don’t think most people would readily pick up a spider and let it crawl on them. To be more specific, I’m talking about medium sized house and garden spiders here; the really small ones are no problem for most non-pants-pissers, and the great big tarantulas aren’t usually an issue in suburban St.Louis. Medium sized spiders tend to require more indirect handling – cup and card for example – than a direct “pick it up by the leg” approach.

Of course the sheer number of bugs here mean that we get the house sprayed periodically which definitely keeps the spider numbers down. In England, by contrast, bugs don’t come into the house much because a) there aren’t as many, and b) houses are proper brick things and not the overgrown plywood sheds that pass for construction in the Midwest. Many’s the evening I’ve sat watching TV there when a giant brown house spider has scurried across the carpet, its big eyes on stalks. (For some reason bricks don’t keep those bastards out.)

So why are people reluctant to pick up spiders? It’s not because of the danger – you know that large spider in the web by the back door can’t hurt you. Of course this doesn’t stop you flailing around spastically when you accidentally walk through the web – it’s on you somewhere and you’ve got to get it off! And it’s not a general aversion to creepy-crawlies; some poeple happily pick up woodlice (roly-polys) or other bugs. Perhaps it’s the extra legs, some primordial memory that instructs us not to trust anything with that combination of appendages.

I happily pick up small spiders, and will let huge insects and spiders walk on me (giant millipedes are great fun – six inches long!) but I won’t pick up those large black, slightly hairy, spindly bastards that you find in the corner of an old outhouse. I remeber going fishing with a mate called Tom – we left really early in the morning and by the time we got to the lake I needed a crap. The single metal portapotty was old and ricketty but OK – until I was comfortably seated. Then Tom banged hard on the wall for a laugh, dislodging about a dozen arachnids that had been resting above my head. Dick.

I’ve brought up my daughter to like bugs, which means that far from fearing them she’s always building them little habitats and bringing them in the house. She never learned the spider size distinction, though. When she was smaller she would regard anything with legs as fair game, pick it up and bring it to me as a special gift. It didn’t bother me though – if she had a huge spider I would just direct her to offer it to Mrs. Bison. “You know Mum would like your new friend…”

Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Dog Days from one of the top humor books of 2012

I just watched a neighbour walking a boxer dog down the road and it reminded me of the one Mrs. Bison had when I started seeing her years ago. Actually it didn’t remind a whole lot of her dog – this one was normal size and well-behaved; hers was steroidally huge and exuberant, undisciplined and inclined to cause terminal embarrassment in public.

Read the rest of this story in one of the top humor books of 2012, Mr Bison’s Journal. You will be laughing out loud.