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Worzels World - Coming out of the Kennel

 

I was born in a simpler age where milk came in only two available types, pasteurised and homogenized, and people were one of only two available genders, male or female. On my arrival the doctor informed my mother with the authority of an experienced obstetrician that I was a boy. Medical opinion was seldom challenged back then and my mother, who I am told was somewhat fatigued at the time, accepted this verdict without question. It was, after all, late on a Friday night.

As I grew and gradually became aware of the wider world I became reconciled to boyhood. I quite enjoyed doing boyish things and it was nice not having to spend very long in the bathroom, wear a dress or be tidy and clean or any of those other girly things. However it was in my teenage years that I began to have some misgivings. I was happy enough being male but I couldn’t help noticing that small cute furry kittens were generally more popular with the girls than I was. Popularity with members of what in those days was the only other gender was becoming important to me. I would quite liked to have been a cute furry kitten but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't carry it off. I didn‘t even have sufficient fur at that time. Something however which time has rectified. 

I did though start emulating many of the characteristics I observed in felines of my acquaintance. I became arrogant and haughty with a supercilious air. I began behaving in a thoroughly selfish and self-absorbed fashion. Things improved remarkably and from then on I became much more popular with girls. (I never did get the knack of licking my own bum but don't really think it would've made much difference.)
This though was long ago, and now I find myself in a strange world that is very far removed from those simple days. I am that most politically incorrect of entities: a post middle-aged tall white male. What appears to have been engendered by the gender agenda is that now no one can be defined by any objective criteria. Women transition to become men and verse vice-a, and this is perfectly acceptable in this new contemporary non-specific world. 

New categories of gender have been developed to accommodate creations not previously found in nature. The current politically correct view would have it that we need not accept what God and nature has obviously formed and what others would define us to be. But we can instead define our own version of reality. We can recreate ourselves in the image of our own delusions and this must be respected by the world at large. Consequently I have decided to transition from post middle-aged white male to small young beige dog. I have, as it happens, recently acquired a small young beige dog and feel that the lifestyle is well suited to me. I now realise that I may have always been a small young beige dog trapped in a human body. 

I have decided to come out of the kennel and announce my species reassignment to the world. I have yet to find a surgeon willing to undertake the complex surgery involved but have already begun canine hormone therapy. I am developing a healthy dislike of posties, my teeth seem to have become a little sharper, and I have become infested with fleas. So if you see me about town I would ask that you now call me Rover. If you feel so inclined you may throw me a bone and if I look a little strange don‘t be afraid – my bark is worse than my bite.

 Feedback? Email prof_worzel@hotmail.com


I have decided to come out of the kennel and announce my species reassignment to the world.

 
To celebrate my species reassignment I was moved to write the following, and although I have experimented with the forms of metre and rhyme, I am assured it is still doggerel:


I’ve had it said 
Right to my face
It’s a dog’s life 
In the rat race.

I was feeling sour, I’d have to say
A few things hadn’t gone my way
And when I called around today
Everybody was away.

But on the porch lay your dog 
He didn’t seem to mind it there 
Just layin’ in the sun
He had a bone, his dish was full
There was water in his water bowl.

He gave a yawn and scratched a flea
And wandered over lazily 
His tail wagged hello
He got a pat and scratch from me 
And lolled his tongue contentedly
And then I had to go.

I could not stay, I had to run
No time for sitting in the sun
There’s lots of work that must be done.

He saw me sadly to the gate
Then settled back again to wait
And soon enough lay sleeping like a log
I decided then
I wanna be your dog.

So if you should ever feel the need
To keep a pet of a mongrel breed
I could use a pat and decent feed
I wanna be your dog.

I’ve decided that 
It’s no disgrace
Living a dogs life 
In the rat race.

I wanna be your dog
 

 
 
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