It’s Godzilla season in South Austin. The Twisty Center for Urban Varmint Research photographed this specimen just moments ago, lurking in the Twisty Experimental Reptile Cave.
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You are reading I Blame The Patriarchy, the patriarchy-blaming blog that advances the radical feminist views of Twisty Faster, a gentleman farmer and spinster aunt eating dinner in Austin, Texas.
I Blame The Patriarchy is intended for advanced patriarchy-blamers. It is not a feminist primer. See Patriarchy-Blaming the Twisty Way for details.
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I have a resident lizard; my teenage son is the proud father of a leopard gecko. My daughter, on the other hand, at least gave me a granddog.
That is one cute lizard. I’ve missed your critter musings. I know… they have naught to do with the blaming, but still…
Hey! Who you callin’ a… oh. You said “AN-ole.” Never mind.
I have a yard full of chameleons, lizards,skinks, and geckos. They make tasty eating, according to my cat, Freddy.
I’m new to reptiles. My daughter brought home a baby ball python a couple of months ago, and, well, I think I’m in love. He’s really the sweetest thing. She now works in a reptile store, and I go in a couple of times a week and play with the snakes and lizards.
Not the tarantula, though. He’s mean. And icky.
(Who am I and what have I done with me?)
~C~
We have a yard full of alligator lizards. My husband babies them and gives them names. They sometimes wander inside the house looking for him. Baby lizards have erupted from our heaters. The lizards can sense that lizardman is not a member of the patriarchy. Therefore they reward him with their company.
Tonight: Geckos on the window screens! First time it’s been warm enough this year. But spring also means the Buick-sized roaches have returned to Deep Inferno, scuttling back into the house like Capostranoian clockwork. It’s the only remaining use for all those two-ton seriously outdated How To Do Fun Stuff With HTML 4 type books: SPLAT!
Awwwww, woodgie-coos!
And Catherine, hooray for ball pythons! My boy Shep will hang around my neck contentedly for hours while I’m blamin’ and bloggin’ and generally poking around here. His only bad habit is that he’ll occasionally poke his hinder six inches into my pants pocket and shit. Fortunately, jeans are washable.
Lately I’ve got to where I can sometimes sense when he’s feeling um moved, and dump him into his pit. Damn good thing too. Still, a pet that shits only once or twice a month, that’s a good thing.
I love the lizards. I have those little pink and brown geckos all over my place. Since the paint on the porches (back and front) is pink, they never *quite* get to the brown stage.
The geckos drive the cats NUTS.
Twisty - I had tacos al pastor at Nuevo Onda the other day and thought of you.
I no longer have reptiles, living in a climate that they really wouldn’t like (we get snow and icky things like that) but my daughter’s first pet was Bobby the bull snake. I found him trying to hide against the molding where the dining room floor met the wall. He spent most of his life trying to escape back to the wild, poor thing, in spite of hand-fed pinkies. He finally found his way out. We were all heartbroken (except, I guess, the pinkie-in-waiting).
You should visit Australia; reptilian fauna abounds. Not only do you get goannas and geckos and red-bellied black snakes aplenty, but if you’re lucky you might also catch sightings of rarer specimens, such as the Bobus Brownus, the Kimus Beazlius and the Johnnus Howardus (sui generis Prime Ministerus Rex).
Once when the Queen was visiting Australia, our then-PM Paul Keating put his hand on her back. The British tabloids picked up on this little incident and dubbed him ‘THE LIZARD OF OZ’.
That is one cute lizard. Very suave. Looks like the sort of lizard that ought to have a little tuxedo with a tiny bow tie, and probably a spiffy cane as well.
It is a Carolina anole, overrun with which my house will soon be, now that the cat’s dead. They’re about 3 inches long, excluding tail, and go from brown to bright green, and are, as you discern somewhat miraculously from that screwy photo, extremely dapper. The Geico lizard can be seen addressing a herd of anoles in one of those car insurance commercials.
The most reptilian thing in my home is the bird. Unless my fiance prevails and his dad moves in with us. Of course, I’d have to be in a coma for that to happen.
Sorry to hear about your cat. Yikes, did the lizards rise up?
Wow, at first glance, I thought it was another taco. One or more of the following may be true:
1) I need to wear my glasses even while idly surfing each morning;
2) The magic of holgafication is not to be underestimated; and/or
3) There is some weird-ass Freudian-like thing going on in what’s left of my brain.
I can’t say which it is, nor can I say I particularly care. I keep unblurring and reblurring my vision, like with those magic eye games: Lizard, taco. Lizard, taco. Lizard, taco.
I could do this all day. Sad, really. I’m sure it’s the patriarchy’s fault. I am, after all, blonde and a woman. Not much more is expected of me.
(Meanwhile, I’m sorry about your cat, too.)
It’s the devilish look in its little reptile eye.
My mother, after she moved to Orlando, had an anole who lived in her TV. He’d come out in the evenings, when she’d turned it on, and sit on top awhile before skithering off to find dinner. I liked the sense that the TV (or something) was watching back.