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Little Lion Cub was cross. He wanted to be king of the savannah, instead of these baboons or whatever.
“Father,” he mewed, “Why am I not hardy like Armadillo? He has armor plating, but I am soft and squishy.”
“Armadillo’s safety is enviable,” his father agreed.
“Then why can’t I be like Falcon? He dives from the sky and takes whatever he wants, and I don’t even have wings. I’m stuck on the ground,” Little Lion Cub moaned.
“Falcon is indeed the freest of animals,” his father conceded.
“I want to be like Sloth! I only get to eat once in a while and it’s always picked-over bones. He eats fresh food all day and sleeps whenever he wants and barely has to move!” Little Lion Cub demanded.
“Are you fu— Now see here, Little Lion Cub,” his father admonished him sternly. “What do you think those animals would say about you?”
“That I’m gay and retarded,” cried Little Lion Cub.
That night, his father brought him a large blob of something wet, fizzy and rank. He dropped it in front of Little Lion Cub with a ‘plop.’
“Eat,” father commanded. “It is fermented bison organs.”
Little Lion Cub wasn’t sure that he’d like it because of the smell. But he trusted his father, who, unbeknownst to him, was indeed Jupiter’s dread sovereign over all Africa.
And just soon as he swallowed the last bite, millions of years of evolution kicked in, and Little Lion Cub knew just what to do about those stupid baboons.
He knew it so instinctively that he didn’t even need human consciousness.
He just did it.
Because this isn’t a story for young lions.
This is a story for young men, who require to be led by the nose.
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