By Josh Emrys Payong

Dear Binston Swongo,

Every night since Halloweekend, I’ve found myself lost in the woods past the golf course, stroking each pine and spruce as if they were his own trunk. You see, Binston…I thought I hooked up with the real Lorax that Friday night. He whisked me away from the Harris by the arm with his soft cheeto-colored hand, his other firmly grasping his bushy tushy like he does when he flies. It was cold out, but it mattered not, for his voluminous moustache enveloped me like a womb does to a baby. He ripped open my fursuit from behind (you see, I’d gone as the Cat in the Hat, but with humongous naturals) and most definitely Let it Grow. But just as I was about to finish, I accidentally ripped some bark off the tree I’d been leaning on. All he did was stop, shake his head, re-twisted his cock (did you know that the Lorax has a corkscrew dick, like ducks? wild), then flew off into the night sky. What do I do with myself, Binston? How do I fill this stout, oval-shaped hole in my gaping ass?

Sincerely,

Cat in the Hat with Humongous Naturals

Dear Cat in the Hat,

Big fan of your work. Thank you for the helpful factoid, but I’m just gonna be honest with you here: we all knew that the Lorax had a corkscrew dick. You see, his influence on campus used to be much stronger before they built all those newfangled sports facilities. He wasn’t even known as the Lorax back then. Back in ‘68, we all called him Lean-Limbed Leo, for his arms and legs were constantly leaning at a fifteen-degree angle to the right of his torso. An extremely long torso, mind you, as he stood at a whopping, gobsmacking, awe-inspiring 5’11”.

Leo was a visiting professor with a particular interest in the mass production of slime, and taught the classes BCM-367: Creating Particularly Viscous Substances w/ Lab (cross-listed as CSC-367) and BCM-368: Eating Particularly Viscous Substances. As part of his research, he went north of campus every night to collect sap from every tree between Ward Field and the golf course, in hopes of finding the perfect viscous fluid with which to make his ideal slime.

So when it was announced that they’d be building football and baseball fields where his research had birthed the most fruit, he was understandably furious. Who gave them the right to take away his sticky, goopy, ooey gooey, mucilaginous, treacly trees? In protest, he ate every single baby carrot in D-Hall, day after day, in the hopes of depriving the sports teams of their nutritious vegetables and turning their eyesight so bad that they develop a win-loss record horrific enough to defund the project. But he missed one key detail: athletes derive all their nutrients from seven burger patties a day. As a result, he developed carotenemia, turning his skin a hue of orange with a warmth that could only be matched by his burning rage. The tree-hugging NARP population of Grinnell followed suit, but none shared his singular, oopy goopy goal.

A couple of years went by. Development on the athletic facilities went as planned. His protest turned into an obsession as his hunger could only be sated by thousands of baby carrots plucked straight from their mommy carrots’ arms. One night, in his desperation, he found himself walking in the nude past the newly built baseball diamond when he suddenly felt the urge to dig. 

He dug and he dug, with nothing but his hands.
And he dug and he dug, secreting fluid from his glands.
Then he hit a hard object, and he could finally relax.
For he had stumbled upon a deposit of borax!
He had found what it took to turn his goop into slime.

And he licked it all up like he was running out of time.

It turned his body stout, his height shrunk to inches few.

And his penis shriveled up into a little corkscrew.

We all saw his transformation happen because it was in the middle of the last game of that semester. Dr Seuss happened to be there to throw the first pitch. What you kids call him today – the “Lorax” – is just a shitty portmanteau of Leo and Borax. He’s not some mythical figure. He is a medium-chopped middle-aged man in a closet made of glass. Like…viscous fluids and phallic vegetables? Could you possibly pick a man with gayer obsessions? Stop yearning and go play with some slime.

Sincerely,

Binston Swongo