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The magical and foul-odored donkey, standing up there like he owned the place. His manager was a raggedy thing beside him. Coughing into the microphone, bumps and strands of hair spread across the terrain of his sunken face, his eyes were like two pebbles stuck in the cracks of a sidewalk. The donkey's posture, if donkeys have such a thing, wasn't stiff, but stoic. There were maybe two thousand people in the room facing him. He had no leash or harness. There was a podium on the stage before him.
I lowered my head and looked at the dirt. There were little plastic mule faces on my shoelaces, clamping them shut because they were always coming untied. The mules had long floppy ears and were supposed to look stubborn, but to me they looked sad.
No dignity? The more things change stay the same, the more things stay the same, which Alex Marson will find out soon enough. Ugh can we not call him hammaconda, gross. Dammit, FLM! Plus, if this guy is a jerk, as it appears he may be, do we really need to give two turdballs that kind of a thrill?