There’s a welfare society near a factory that I frequently visit. I drive by it on some mornings and have always viewed it as a remarkable establishment. It’s been around for about a decade, where before only unleveled ground lay. Now this welfare society is very peculiar: it is a welfare society for horses, mules and donkeys. Yet it is a building. A very large one at that. I can only imagine what goes on in there, since I have never seen a living soul walk in or out of it.
Do the people that run the society give these animals offices and airlift then to the fifth floor? I’d imagine so. I think of a donkey in a suit sitting behind a desk reading the morning paper, ordering his secretary around. Every now and then he kicks out at her, not because of anything she has done but because he’s plain antsy. He likes his coffee black with three sugars, even though the doctor has repeatedly asked him to keep off the sucrose. But Suit-Donkey doesn’t care, he’s a rebel. Suit-Donkey wears sunglasses indoors and cracks rather unfunny, lewd jokes that everyone at the office is obliged to laugh at in fear of his wrath. Suit-Donkey tips over the water-cooler if he’s having a bad day and makes astute yet painful comments about his wife’s bodyweight in her absence. I already hate the guy. Suit-Donkey is an ass.