(Transcript from my podcast:)
There is a fine line between public service and charity. What the Troglodytes have been doing is a public service, but now the humans are asking too much. I have looked at the human statistics, and the news, as you may have heard, is, that those humans categorized as being chronically homeless have reduced in number over the last year by ten percent. Statistical analysis only gets one so far--as human social scientists have discovered. These human researchers have asked themselves, where have these humans gone? Well, I can tell you where they have gone. These humans, or rather, should I say, these numbers have been removed from your spreadsheets by the maws of hungry troglodytes. As I've said before, troglodytes cannot help it if human flesh tastes good to a troglodyte, and, unluckily, troglodyte flesh tastes disgusting to humans. But this is a clean-up job. We are not eating these humans because we need to. Up to now, it has been public service.
Troglodytes are fiercely individualistic. We are not tribal thinking brutes. But we also know our place in the world and recognize public institutions help coordinate the activities of all creatures--and all creatures should feel bound to the public sphere to some extent. In short, we must all try to make this world a better place to live.
And so we eat the discards of your civilization. Or, rather, I should say, we utilize the discards. For we use your discarded humans in much cleverer ways than humans themselves do. This is a shame. I watch with dismay how many of your discards are simply buried to rot, or burned into useless ash. It is strange that so much fuss and capital is expended over expired humans; whilst you have so many humans, whom you define as "Chronically Homeless", who are sick and lonely and therefore unpalatable.
I am warning the Accountants of Death that if they keep winnowing their records, the troglodytes will begin refusing to do their bidding.
Let me explain the situation. In order to make your society seem more civilized, the Accountants of Death have decided that the Chronically Homeless are defined only as those who have no family or friends that they can stay with. Good, you are saying to yourself. This is a good definition. Who cares about these people? Nobody. They have no friends, they have no family, let the troglodytes eat them.
Well, let me tell you, one who would think such a thing, this is not a happy situation.
Troglodytes have long been a part of the solution to the human's so-called homeless problem. Co-existing with humans for thousands of years in your festering cities, we have done our part in cleaning things up and eating a few homeless persons here and there. Let me tell you, we have eaten our fill of old boney codgers in cardboard boxes. Number crunching, let's call it. Well, don't narrow the definition. We will eat your refuse, but only if it has flavor. The numbers with family have more flavor, and, consequently, more nutritional value to a troglodyte. If we simply ate tired old men whom nobody loved, well, I wouldn't go so far to say that the human species has become a parasite on the troglodyte one, but let's say that the symbiotic relationship is being strained to the seams!
I hope I am getting my point across. I think it might be too strong to say that the human species has become a parasite on the troglodytes. Well, let us look at the definitions of parasite. The first definition of parasite is: Parasite, in biology A (generally undesirable) living organism that exists by stealing the resources needed by another (generally desirable) living organism. The second definition of parasite is: Parasite, (pejorative) A useless person who always relies on other people's work and gives nothing back. Unlike cannibal, this word, parasite, exists in the troglodyte language. We have been called parasitic by humans for a long time, and many a troglodyte slurs another troglodyte by this defaming pejorative. As in "Leave me alone, you parasite." In point of fact it is one of the worst insults a troglodyte can level at another. For a point of reference, in troglodyte culture, claiming that one has a parasitic nature is as bad as, in human culture, referring to and exaggerating about the sexual practices of another's parent, namely, one's mother. It is a slippery slope, and doomed to a violent outcome.
So, I am saying to you Accountants of Death, do your work. Those humans who have families or friends to stay with but have no home, or even a room of their own, should be regarded as what they are, properly. Namely, they should be regarded as Homeless. And homeless of the worst sort. In the troglodyte language we do not have such a concept as "Homeless." We call these people who are sleeping on couches and floors and lawns of their family and so-called friends what they properly are: Parasites. These parasites are being fed and being kept warm. Those old men in boxes, and those old bag ladies have no families and are practically the walking-dead. But the choice morsels are those indolent leeches that live on you and have no income or self-respect. So you see that both the biological and pejorative definitions of parasite in Human English are at play here.
I know about parasites. I have a few in my own home. I cannot do anything about it. As god of the troglodytes I try to run a tight ship, as the idiomatic expression goes, but things get out of hand. And there's nothing I can do. Oh I have an outrageous example for you! My wife's cousin has been sleeping in front of our hearth for decades now. His name is Gromo. Gromo Glasan Tubalny. My wife's cousin Gromo is just dead weight with stupid opinions. And, to add insult to injury, because of my wife's insistence, he eats with us when we have supper. Every day passes, he gets stupider and fatter and lazier. He has lost all momentum. He has enough energy to get food past his rubbery lips and release waste from his stentorian bowels. What am I supposed to do with this? I would just assume load this fellow into a cart of some design when he's full of my family's food and dump on the corner of one of your city centers and let him rot, or better, used to feed the human elderly--in some sort of stew, for example. There are a half a dozen loafers in my domicile, that I can recount from memory. But if I had a choice of which sponge I'd like to expunge from my home, it would most definitely be Gromo. When he opens his mouth to do anything but eat my food, this cousin of mine says the most grotesque things. Opinions of the most foul persuasion. He is a pseudo-intellectual, with pseudo-intellectual opinions about art, poetry, politics, and most blasphemously, human matters. He is obsessed with humans, but he does not know a human language. I gave him a tape recorder and an English learning set. He listens to it and spouts such awful opinions about baser human creations, such as TV sitcoms, and progressive new-age music. He really should be executed. But even the god of the troglodytes must live within the rule of law. I must stay bound. I am part of a community. And so the hated Gromo lords over my house while I try to humbly rule the troglodytes. I am trying to convince him to go explore the human world. I am sure he will be eaten by a gorilla or maybe even a large dog if he tries such an endeavor. I would poison him, but I fear retribution even more than I fear his stinking opinions on the latest Windham release, or ECM's latest, or a rare Mannheim Steamroller that he found. God I hate him. He even enjoys human entertainer Garrison Keillor's singing. And, this is a topic that I may have to elaborate upon on another podcast, I demand that the humans either abolish the death penalty, or pass a law banning Garrison Keillor from singing in public.
Anywise, my point is, everywhere we have parasites. And these humans living just on the margins of what you deem chronically homeless. These humans have no place. Give them to me. We will eat him or her. Thank you. Now I will leave with some real human singing.
