Why My Stuffed Animals Hate Me


[Deb asked me to write on the above photo. I have… so now we are EVEN]

I might have switched some of their heads in an attempt to make a Beanie Baby with the speed and intelligence of a stuffed zebra.

I occasionally use them as oven mitts.

Sometimes, when I’ve had a few too many, I tell them that, if they aren’t happy with me, I’ll be glad to take them back to the truck-stop claw-machine where I got them in the first place.

I make them watch CSPAN with me.

Sometimes, when I’m sleeping, I roll over onto one, two or all of them.

Nearly every day, I remind each of them that they aren’t my natural children.

Sometimes, I stuff one of them with cocaine and sneak it into Bogota. It isn’t very profitable but it’s a lot easier than sneaking cocaine OUT of Bogota…

I told them, if they went to college and maintained a B average, I’d pay their tuition and books; but, the stuffed monkey made the Dean’s List at Yale and I DON’T have an extra seventy thousand dollars lying around.

I keep trying to do something horrible to the stuffed kangaroo while it sleeps; but, ever since it was stuffed full of cocaine, it never seems to close its eyes.

They are resentful because I never added them to my health insurance…

11 thoughts on “Why My Stuffed Animals Hate Me

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