Recently I read an article about a group of college students caught playing Frisbee with a dead frog. They had picked up a particularly large bull frog that had met an untimely end on the highway, and after perfuming it, doing a little manicuring
and then shellacking it, they proceeded to have a lively flattened frog Frisbee
match. The article, which seems to have disappeared, did not go into detail
about the possible punishment administered for this unusual form of entertainment.
One must wonder why the students could not afford a conventional Frisbee. One must also wonder why someone pulled the story. I imagine the college hoped that the story might simply disappear. The last thing they needed was for PETA to get involved because of their students' total lack of respect for the poor dead
frog's family or its dignity as a frog, in general. I’m mighty glad we have such
organizations, seeing as frog degradation is probably one of our planet's most severe problems.
I am a writer and an amateur photographer; well according to whom you ask, you
may find out I am neither. A good picture requires many things, but the two
most valuable aspects are contrasting colors and vibrant textures. I have found
that roadkill fills both these requirements. However, I can only imagine the
outcry if someone attempted to do a photo study of it. I’d love to see them try
to open a show in Greenwich Village on such a subject.
“You know, I like many of these pieces, but the Raccoon intestines are a splendid
example of realism, and the paper thin frog skin makes such a statement about transparency and the soul of all living creatures.” Stuffed shirt number one said.
“Did you see the family of ducks that were hit at the same time? It’s hard to tell
where one begins, and the others end, but even as abstract as it is, the piece
speaks volumes about the plight of our society and the struggle of man.” Stuffed
shirt number two said.
“I can’t believe you people are looking at all this. I’m getting my gun and
killing every last one of you.” The disgruntled P.E.D.A. member said.
“Oh the horror, that’s it, all humans must be exterminated.” The Vegan said.
“I got one of them dudes on my wall at home.” The redneck writer displaced by
marginal talent and forced to live in New York City said.
The next thing you know, redneck sculptures would pop up around the world. All they would require to become world famous artists is an old pickup, some perfume, some shellac and the ability to pick up anything without retching. Wait are we talking about redneck sculpting or dating?
I have been all over this great planet, and I thought I had seen it all. What
prompted this story you may ask? Last week the amphibious bus I work on, exited the bay and a dead goat lay there at the top of the ramp. Someone had covered it with a towel, but the hooves and snout poking out left no doubt what it was.
I stood looking into the faces of forty innocent tourists and continued to make
jokes and spout facts about the area, without missing a beat and hoping no one
else noticed. Seeing as I am part redneck myself, it was all I could do to
refrain from making one of the dozen jokes, about the poor creature, which were
swimming through my addled brain.
Worse, the questions about what kind of vehicle could have produced such an unusual piece of roadkill, what kind of person could have covered it with the towel and whether or not such a person prayed over it, nagged at me the rest of the day.
I guess as long as there are plane, trains and automobiles, thousands of
creatures will continue to commit suicide by motorized vehicle. Wait, back up, imagine airkill for just a moment. Are we in agreement that pilots and people who find bird poop on their windshield are overjoyed cows don’t fly?
So we rednecks may continue to shoot, stuff and hang things on our walls. College students can continue to wear coon skin caps and toss pig skins back and forth across the football field. But playing a game with a flattened, furry Frisbee
that looks amazingly like a raccoon or a flattened, oversized bull frog is
crossing some imaginary line that may result in disciplinary actions.
Imagine what would happen if someone figured out how to make profits from roadkill? People everywhere would be fighting over dead critters; it seems capitalism cures many ills. Remember placing pennies on railroad tracks as a child? Yeah, getting that idea out of my head, now that it’s there, might be like trying to dislodge the memory of that poor dead goat.