zaius13:

I grew up on a farm. No, not that kind of farm; I mean the one with the crops and the livestock and the smell. My father prided himself on our award winning kumquats, and rode his trusty walrus, Jeff, to nearby towns where he would sell kumquat burgers and kumquat soup. Dad wouldn’t let us anywhere near Jeff, and my brothers and I took after him by each growing possessive of other animals on the farm. Some would say we took animal husbandry too far, too literal, or too sexy, but they were just jealous.

My older brother took up with a tarantula he named Isabella after Isabella Rossellini because Blue Velvet was his favorite film. He’d reenact scenes from the film with her, often in the nude, as a sort of dinner theater whenever guests came over. My younger brother pledged himself to a gopher named Becky, who he insisted was secretly a unicorn, although we could tell she probably wasn’t really. Becky wasn’t allowed in the house because she was racist.

Me, I was the lucky one. I was with Maxine, one of the penguins that lived behind the barn. One of the best things about Maxine, besides being able to recite the lyrics of any ’80s sitcom theme song, was that she had a fabulous rack. After a while, Maxine got pregnant, and once she began lactating, I’d milk her for hours each day. It was an unbelievable amount of milk for a penguin, so my mom started cooking with it.

First, of course, was kumquat milk, and then penguin yogurt, and eventually, my mom found it perfect for baking. It didn’t take long before our “Bird Milk” tarts became the talk of the town, what with their partially hydrogenated palm oil, chocolate coathing, and the world’s best agar. Although it was listed right there on the package, we liked to think that the secret ingredient was flavor.

This is the most warped piece of Tumblr posting I have come across in quite a while.

Needless to say, there will NOT be a place at the 1962 Thanksgiving table for Dr. Zaius, this year.

Penguin milk, indeed.