"Look who's coming out of her shell," Anonymous Expresser said, gloating in his-or-her imaginary knowledge of all things shell.
It's a common misconception, so I'm here to state the facts. I want you to realize that turtles are not shy. NOT AT ALL. As an ordinary, non-turtled human, you naturally don't understand how un-shy they are. But turtles are malicious. They're revengeful. Their little turtle hearts are grimy with hate.
They crouch sulkily in their pebbled tanks as millions of strangers pass by, gazing in.
"Oh, look, how quiet and sweet. What a perfect analogy for a shy person," they say. "We're going to start telling people to come out of their shells," they say. "It's a perfect expression... perfect," they say.
Man looketh on the outward appearance. But there are things in a turtle's mind that would AUTOMATICALLY make a movie PG-13 for violence and smoking images.
When
I come home from work, I walk up the steps to my apartment. I press my ear
against the cold windowpane of my living room. The curtains droop placidly
against the glass. The stillness could convince a person of perfect peace and
tranquility within. But I know better now. I know that I am within four feet of
a clandestine meeting of the Violent Un-shy.
This
is a true story. I had just moved in, arranged and re-arranged all my
furniture. I made blueprints in a notebook and moved it and moved it until I
finally liked it. I was exhausted. My turtles sulked in their tanks, heads
withdrawn. I didn't have a single roommate yelling profanities at her video
games. I didn't have a single Justin Bieber howling on the radio. It was like a
beautiful dream.
I
lay down on my survivor mattress that had cascaded from the top of my van,
twice, as I drove it, tied only with a jump rope, in the dead of night so
that no one would see. It was like flopping down upon a pile of downy pillows
in a royal boudoir. I must have fallen asleep because I wandered into that
place where strange things happen.
Suddenly,
I heard a terrible noise. I can only describe it as 20% chain saw, 80% coyote.
My
new neighbors must be having car issues, I thought, innocently.
My
eyelids were dragging when I heard it again- much, MUCH louder. Unmistakably in
my house.
Adrenaline
coursed through me where exhaustion had been. I snatched my phone and dialed
9-1-1 with a shaking finger. My thumb hovering over the send button, I
cautiously peered through the doorway to my living room. There I gazed upon a
horrible sight.
My
turtles were banging against the sides of their tanks. Their little mouths were
wide open, emitting the 20% chainsaw 80% coyote sounds. Their chubby, scaly legs flailed
wildly. A wave of water exploded over the side of Yertle's tank. It was as
though somebody had kidnapped my peaceful pets and replaced them with ferocious
sea creatures.
"What
do you want? What do you want?" I yelled, scrambling around my living room
with a can of turtle food in one hand, a stack of treats in the other.
I
held the can out over Mack's tank, ready to pour, when he leaped up from the
foaming water and swallowed the entire thing- lid and all. Seconds later, he
continued that fearful din.
"I'll
make you into soup!" I threatened, weakly. "I'll use your shells as
Frisbees!" The sides of Yertle's tank gave way with a crash. I grabbed a
roll of duck tape which luckily I had used to less than an hour before, so I
knew exactly where to find it. I frantically patched the tank as a second wave
plummeted to my landlord's carpet.
It
was a TWO HOUR turtle revolt. TWO HOURS. I hovered nearby the entire time,
hoping against hope that they'd be unsuccessful in their mad attempts to devour
each other, all the food in my kitchen, or me.
This
has happened every day since then. EVERY DAY. I use up all my spare time and
more energy that I ever imagined I had, yet I barely keep them contained.
Oh
yes. You're just like a turtle when you hide inside your shell. You must be
plotting acts of murderous rage. So sweet. So quiet. So shy.
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