9. THE PTERODACTYL LEAVES THE FOLD

(Shecky Pterosaur sits at a desk, composing a letter to his brother pterodactyls.)
Dear Stink-odactyls: Just kidding. Anyway, I’m writing this letter to inform you porcupine racetracks that, as of today I’m leaving you all in the dust! I’ve been mulling it over in my brain the size of a pea and I’ve decided that I can’t live the normal pterodactyl life anymore. I’m through with the pillaging, destroying and lifting of things in my talons. I need to pursue my lifelong dream, which we all know is to move to Vegas and become an insult comic. You googly-eyed goofballs are aware of my formidable skills at knocking folks down a few pegs verbally, and I think it’s time I shared my put-downs with the public.
Ever since I was reanimated, I’ve been studying the great insult comics, all of them. Groucho Marx, Don Rickles, Jacky Mason, they all helped me find my new purpose, and it’s opened my eyes and ears like water to a duck. And speaking of ducks (makes a fart noise with his hand/talon.) That probably doesn’t translate well to the page, but I just made a fart noise. I know Philo is cracking up at that one. See, this is how I roll, fellas. No holds barred, no bars held. I gotta be me, right? No one can stifle old Shecky Pterosaur no more. To all those folks who don’t get me, or think I’m too in your face with the put-downs and the truth bombs, just what the H-E double hockey pucks is wrong with you, ya nimrods! You gotta be duller than a marching band not to get what I’m saying, am I right? What are you, John Philip Snooze-a?
I know what some of you might be thinking. Isn’t cracking wise with the guys enough for you? But you’re thinking too small, which is admittedly understandable, considering the size of our brains, and don’t we have one in our butts, too? That’s just trouble waiting to happen right there. Wait, I just had a thought (makes another fart noise.) You’re welcome, Philo. But seriously, now and all kidding aside, I’ve got big plans for little old me. Of course I’d start small, like the Catskills, or maybe even smaller, the Kittenskills. I’d hit the late-night shows and work my way to Vegas, where my act might include a couple of songs. “I Gotta Be Me,” obviously, and maybe that pterodactyl classic, (screeches.) Though that may confuse non-Spanish speaking audiences. This will inevitably lead to my sitcom, “Winged Assault,” where I insult my family, neighbors and co-workers, and introduce the world to my infamous catchphrase, “What are you looking at, dicknose?” After a healthy ten-year run, I’ll retire the show and exit the limelight for about five years and then start my brilliant comeback with a stand-up tour, introducing newer, more conceptual insults, like the fact that a pretty penny has a different meaning for Abe Lincoln fetishists. Then I’ll retire for real, guest-hosting the occasional talk show and maybe writing my memoirs, Yes I Can… Fly. Of course, the very first step is to get married, so I can insult my wife’s cooking and shopping habits, and my mother-in-law’s cooking and shopping habits. So, if you know of anyone, hook a winged finger up, if you know what I mean.
Look fellas, this is the hardest letter I’ve had to write, and not just because my talons weren’t designed to operate a fountain pen. I’m really gonna miss you guys, no fooling. But this is something I gotta do. Not just for me, but for the good of the world. Humankind has a big hole that needs to be filled by a sarcastic dinosaur. It’s my destiny. But I’ll never forget the little lizards that were there for me in the beginning. Philo and Ralph, and of course Crow. And to you non-believers, why don’t put some skates on your face, and skate! Sincerely: Shecky Pterosaur. PS: I just have one last thought on my mind (Makes yet another fart noise.) Just needed to close with that remark. See ya, suckers!