Listen Here, Little Shits, I am a Glyptodon!

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PHOTO: Pavel Riha

Listen here, all you snot-nosed little shits running by, ignoring the signs that say to walk: I am a glyptodon, a giant fucking Pleistocene armadillo, and I demand what meager attention you have that hasn’t been dulled by television, public schooling, and a life of relative ease absent the threats of meteorological cataclysm and glaciation. I may not be as large as the other Pleistocene megafauna that you’re rushing past me to see in this here natural history museum, but I’m still megafauna, goddammit, and I’m so fucking tired of being disregarded!

I see you over there in your little groups, gawking at the mastodon, which you and your stupid teachers and field trip chaperones keep calling a wooly mammoth. Well get a clue, dipshits: Mastodons and wooly mammoths aren’t the same things. While they do have a common lineage and many similarities, mastodons evolved much earlier than wooly mammoths, they were smaller than wooly mammoths, and—most importantly, scientists say—they chewed their food differently than mammoths fucking did.

You see, mammoths had ridged molars that allowed them to cut through vegetation and eat grass, whereas mastodons had nipple-like cones on their molars that allowed them to grind woody shrubs and motherfucking branches. In fact, this detail is so important that mastodons are named for their teeth: Mastos is Greek for “breast,” and odontos is for “tooth,” so mastodon literally means “breast tooth.” Like I said, these breast-like shapes helped the mastodons get wood and—

Oh, you little smartasses think that’s funny? Well here’s something else you might find funny: While you’re laughing about breasts and wood and trying to climb the ribcage of the plesiosaur, you’re missing valuable information at my display that’ll be on your tests! So if I were you, I’d get over here and read about the shape of my teeth. Glypto, you might be interested to know, means “curved,” and no, you childish boobs, that isn’t a reference to the way I get wood, it’s a reference to—

What’s that, Mrs. Jones? I’m not on the test? Well exactly why the fuck not? Just because I’m not the enormous tyrannosaurus skeleton that you and your ignorant students keep fawning over does not mean that my horny body—

Oh, laugh it up, you little dickheads! I just wish for a second, just a goddamn second, that the megalodon jaw you’re all leaping through would turn back into the largest shark the world has ever seen and chase you down to swallow you all whole. You bet your asses you’d all be over here seeking cover in my dome-like shell, trying to protect yourselves the way your ancestors did during inclement weather. Do you think I’d give two shits, though? I wouldn’t. I’d let you get eaten.

Anyway, it’s becoming abundantly clear that jumping the bones of gigantic carnivores is more important to you than the fact that, though I look like a turtle, I can’t withdraw my head and—

You little snots sure are something! I am done with you and your snickering. Fortunately, every part of my body is rock hard, and your sophomoric jokes can’t penetrate—

Goddammit, you infantile shits, that fucking does it! I’d weep for the future if I weren’t extinct!

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Christopher Martin hails from the vast suburban void northwest of Atlanta, a sprawling wasteland teeming with dragons, manticores, and new craftsman-style mini-mansion developments with homes starting in the low 290’s. The bio he’s been known to use for lesser publications states that he lives with his family “between the Allatoona Range and Kennesaw Mountain,” though it’s probably more accurate to say they’re smack in the center of a circle that includes an overpriced barbecue joint that was once a Baptist church, a Panda Express that was once a Church’s Chicken, a Christian gun store, and a secular Target. He’s written a few things of the poem and essay variety, which you can find if you want using your favorite search engine, such as Google or Ask Jeeves, provided you’re willing to filter through all the other Chris Martins your search will yield. Atlanta Banana folks might be interested in his articles at McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, though, so here you go.