A question from Israel:

Liron wrote:

Q:

Dear dave,

I have a small colony of arctic penguins living under my bed. Every morning, they braid my hair and fry me eggs for breakfast. They say that they are preparing me to be nice, pretty and plump for sacrifice to the King Penguin.
What should I do?

Respects,
Liron

A: Well, let’s see [backs away quietly, making no sudden movements], I guess the main thing to do is take your medication…

Just kidding. Every question to daveb is a serious question. Daveb knows all! Never fear O’ braided and egg-smeared chickie-monkey, daveb is here for you!

You may or may not be aware (I’m assuming from your question that you are) of my issues with penguins. It’s true, I have had quasi-erotic dreams involving them. I’m not ashamed. It’s perfectly fine. I run Linux, it’s probably got something to do with that. No reason to call the police.

Since you claim to be in imminent peril of being eaten (assuming you’ve reached the requisite plumpness), I took your question very seriously. I needed to consult a higher power. I needed to talk to my “Spirit Penguin”.

Some people are in touch with their animal totems, be they birds, lions, bears, turtles. My spirit totem is a partially shaved obese emperor penguin with a ridge of rainbow feathers down his back. I often see him slouching about, eating fritos and belching whole sentences in Portuguese. He’s one fucked up puppy.

So, in order to prepare myself I fasted for a whole twenty minutes and climbed the highest point possible, which was the roof of my apartment building here in Brooklyn (you can’t expect me to go mountain climbing. I’m delicate, you know) and proceeded to meditate on my spirit penguin, calling out to him. Finally, after rubbing my armpits with vegetable shortening, he arrived.

I posed your question to him. After some thoughtful shuffling and crunching of deep-fried corn products, he looked me in the eyes and gave me the answer:

Titties and beer.

I know, you’re probably a bit doubtful about this and believe me, so was I. Rather than steer you wrong, I hopped down to bodega and picked up a couple 40’s and ran back to the roof. I offered the malt beverages to my penguin and he went right for them. As soon as I noticed that his Portuguese belches were starting to slur and get repetitive, I quickly tore off my shirt and ribbed my hairy man-nipples in his face.

He ran away honking and screeching like a bitch.

Good luck.

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