“Falafel”
Tim shouted as he lunged through the dense foliage of the park.
“Gimme, gimme, gimme!”
Alas,
Esmerelda Marcos, who at that time was enjoying the very falafel Tim
smelled, did not speak dinosaur, so all she heard was a terrifying
roar and the thunderous sound of dinosaur footfalls slamming against
the jungle floor. Naturally, she ran, taking her food with her.
Dejected,
Tim trudged back into the forest, once again deprived of a good meal.
Being an epicurean T-Rex was harder than one might imagine. He had no
money with which to purchase funnel cakes and curries and fine wines
and his tiny hands could neither pull discarded plates of kung pao
chicken from trash bins nor lift them to his mouth if he wanted to.
For the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, being a fifteen foot
tall seven ton giant lizard with a reputation for brutal carnage, he
would never know the joy of fois gras, beef wellington, or chicken
cordon bleu.
It
was disheartening, he was so hungry. Alas. At least he could always
count on the staff of the island park to provide him with veal
tartare, even if it was lacking in spices and he had to mince the
meat with his own teeth.
- Originally mailed to S. Gill of Ocean Springs, Mississippi
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