OTTERPOL: [steps to podium] Hello. I stand before you today a humbled man and would like to address various allegations that have arisen in the press. Most of them are true; others are partially true; others are highly inventive and have given me some interesting ideas for this weekend. Yet none of these allegations approach the totality of what, after much therapy, I have learned to describe as my “natural freak gene.”

My wife has stood beside me throughout this ordeal. When she isn’t standing beside me, she is standing behind me as I “check my email.”

In this way, bless her heart, my wife keeps that freak gene in check. And yes, she still refuses to engage in online role-playing with me, in part because it’s even weirder than real-life role-playing with me. I shall explain.

It is high time the people of my city, and of my state, and especially my step-family know the truth. After much therapy and a near-death experience involving a psychosomatic polyester allergy, I have the strength to stand up and declare: I am a “furry,” and I am not ashamed, though I do wish my wife were wearing her otter costume instead of a gray dress and an expression that says things to me — things like, “God, you’re the sexiest squirrel I’ve ever met” and “if I see one more picture of your schlong on Pinterest I am going straight back to the office to bang that intern who wears slacks, you know, like a human being.”

Am I ashamed of parading my bathing-suit area across the worldwide web, on any site that will have me? Am I ashamed that my IP address has been blocked from MySpace, LinkedIn, and the Guardian’s Comment Is Free? I stand before you to say, “yes,” though the real answer is, “fuck no.” Those pics were goddamn glorious. Whether you’re staring at the chiseled line that bisects my pectoral real estate, or that shot of me on all fours wearing Dumbo ears, I just know — deep down, in some dark, furry place — that the people need me. They need me fighting for sensible healthcare solutions. They need me monitoring rent controls and predatory lenders. They need me committing genital mishaps in the most public possible way, ideally dressed as a wombat or a Mexican wrestler named José Perilous (the “p” is silent).

So, even as I apologize with convincing earnestness to my wife, my wife’s parents, and my wife’s parents’ Weimaraner, I guess what I’m also saying is: please don’t listen to me. I am not sorry, especially about the Weimaraner. Truth be told, I’m a goddamn American hero. It was General John Stark who scrawled those immortal words, “live free or die.” Well hot damn am I living — why just yesterday the neighbor’s poodle humped my leg as I was going door-to-door, soliciting votes and exposing myself to unsuspecting retirees. And I wasn’t even wearing my poodle costume. That’s some next level shit. Churchill had nothing on me.

My wife has prepared a statement of her own, as you will see from the papers she clutches in the hand that isn’t holding a rolling pin. Please remember: whatever she says, animal costumes are fucking awesome and if you’ve got an above-average dick, the world needs to see it. If I have learned nothing else from this painful ordeal, at least I’ve learned that.

On a closing note…. [Wife clobbers pol with rolling pin, kicks him to make sure he’s out, steps to the podium.]

WIFE: Thank you, everybody. I think we’ve all had a long day, and my husband needs to rest. I have forgiven him, and you should too — the quickest solution is applying blunt force to his head and repeating as necessary. The squirrel costume cushions blows very nicely!

ED HENRY: Ooh ooh, can I have a go?

WIFE: Fuck off, Ed.


Follow Ted Scheinman on Twitter: @Ted_Scheinman


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