Her name is Barb. They’re all named Barb. I asked why and she said, Because we’re Barbs, Trycycle, we Barb. She sneaks away in the morning to get Taco Time, I don’t know where she gets the NoShirt/NoShoes, but her breath always smells like pico. She could bring me back something. I ask her where she wants me to go. Take me to the dodo’s last stand. Just drop me off at the scythe sharpeners domicile. There’s a man than can hold a gal’s attention. Let’s just go to the end of the parade, Trycycle, where everyone drops their shit and says thank God that’s done with. Those are my people, the end of the parade people. I don’t know why I ask. Instead, I say, Hey, when it’s your time of the month, can we talk the day off? No dice Tryc, my funk is your funk is our funk. If you get shot with an arrow, I’ll let you know. When she’s asleep us dinos sneak off and gather by tarpits to commiserate. We bitch about our Barbs. We put on a big show for each other, but we know we’re nothing without them. That’s what’s damnable truth though I wish it wasn’t. It's boring as hell. But our makers make us do it. To them we’re some kind of symbol. That maybe the human race shouldn’t give up on itself because we have naked women riding dinosaurs. And sure, people smile, they greet us with much merriment. But it seems like a lot of pressure to put on some apes that happened upon wheels and fire. Those magic mushrooms sunk the plant. Maybe’ll sink the whole cosmos.