Beware the calm, quiet times. They don't signify peace. The calm, quiet times happen while Fate is walking slowly back to its mark to begin its next run-up, to kick you, with maximum prejudice, in the nads.
Ben
Land mullets (Bellatorious major), the back legs of one which are expertly photographed above as it attempts, not particularly successfully, to show its disregard for Homo not-particularly sapiens by mooning for the camera are, allegedly, harmless to humans. They are, also allegedly, vegetarians.
But these phylogenetically-ancient ex-dinosaurs also resemble a rogue 50 centimetre penis with scales and legs and eyes and a creepy spaghetti-tongue, the stuff nightmares are made of, and they scare the pants off me when I come across them unexpectedly while I am crawling around under our back deck trying to fix some random plumbing problem.
And, scariest of all, they give you the intense, blinkless stare of a cop with a breathalyser.
You can see them thinking "We were here long before you came, and we will still be here long after you go, baby."
Humans' transient neo-infestation of this beautiful planet is on its final lap, and these blinkless, humourless, emotion-free nightmares-on-legs are, apparently, quite happy to just let us get on with it.
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