I’m going to get to my St. Patrick’s Day Parade recap today.  Promise.  It’s going to be awesome.  Elmo is involved.

In the meantime …

I have a kind heart — a heart as big as a large dog, mind you — and that kind heart has a soft spot for human children.

They’re so cute and honest and lovable and yummy.  Relax.  I’m not going to eat your children.  I can eat 500 pounds of meat in one bite.  Do you really think I want your M ‘n M-sized runt?  Also, they’re slow.  There’s no challenge in the chase.

As I was saying, they’re cute and honest and lovable.  Look at these adorable letters to God some kids wrote.

Here’s my favorite.

I agree!  Dennis smells.  Send him somewhere else.  Cute kids.

But then I saw this one:

I don’t know who this “Jonathan” person is but first of all his spelling is atrocious.  Dinasor? Is George Bush teaching your children how to spell?  And if extinct was even a word, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be spelled like that.  Second of all, I’ve read letters from boll weevils with better grammar than that.  And third of all, Jonathan is a stupidhead and I bet he smells.

Rawr.

Good morning, kids!

What a weekend.  Stick around because I’m going to be posting a photographic recap of the city’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade.

Before I get to that though, did you see this story out of London?!

THIEVES stole a lump of fossilised dinosaur dung from London’s Natural History Museum, it was revealed today.

According to a list of specimens stolen or lost from the museum’s collection over the past five years, the 65-million-year-old piece of dung, or coprolite, measuring about 7.5cm, was stolen while it was secured in a clamp on display in 2006.

First, it is just an odd coincidence, I assure you, that the poop is the same age as me.

Second, I know nothing about the flaming bag of dinosaur poo burning on “Dr.” Matt Lamanna’s porch.

Rawr.
[print_link]

Zeus’s lightning bolts, readers!

I woke up this morning and, well … bagpipes?  REALLY?

At first I assumed the students were playing a joke on me because this is Friday the 13th and if you read on down, you’ll see what Friday the 13th means to a dinosaur.

But this is not a joke.  This is a school-approved Saint Patrick’s Day costume.

I have some things I’d like to say about this:

1.  Who is in charge of costuming me?  I’d like a name; I’d like a location and I’d like to show that person my teeth.

2.  Does my colossal mouth filled with those aforementioned sharp teeth look like it has any chance at all of puckering around that tiny bagpipe mouth piece?  I don’t think so.  Next year, just give me some shiny beads to throw to the ladies.

3.  I’m pretty sure the bagpipes are supposed to go UNDER my arm.  First person to make a “ha-ha.  T-rexes have tiny little useless arms” joke is also going to get up close and personal with my sharp teeth.

4.  It was 20 degrees last night.  You think I could have had a scarf or something?  I’m hoarse this morning and my rawr sounds like a little kitten purring at a piece of lint.  Not very useful when I need to let the students know I don’t appreciate being leaned on.  I need a thunder-filled RAWR for that if I want to make them pee their pants.  That’s just funny.

5. I can’t be sure, but I think I’m really holding a faded Italian flag.

6.  The city’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade is coming right past me tomorrow so I’ll have the best seat on the street.  My flickr stream is going to be off the hook.  A note:  If you climb up on me to get a better view of the parade, I cannot be held responsible for the injuries you suffer when my dinosaur instincts kick in and whisper to me that you smell just like a juicy hadrosaur. You’ve been warned.

Rawr.

Friday the 13th!  Friday the 13th is supposed to be some sort of spooky bad news kind of day for humans, but for us dinosaurs it’s much different.  This is the day I like to play practical jokes on the students here at AIP.  Art students, I tell you what, they scare easily.

When I was a wee lad growing up in Montana, me and my best friends would play some seriously brilliant practical jokes on the cave-dwellers.

Me, Art, Fred, Don, and Sally would wait until the cave family fell asleep.  This ususally involved us waiting until the kids finished coloring on the walls and Mom and Dad tucked them into their corners to sleep.  After Dad was done dragging mom around by the hair, we would hear them snoring loudly.  This was our cue.  The five of us, all 20 tons of us, would creep to the mouth of the cave and start jumping up and down, shaking so violently the very earth the cave family slept on that they were convinced the angry gods were rending the earth in two.

The whole family would run screaming out of the cave and we’d be pointing and laughing,“Ha-ha-ha! It’s just us! Rawr!” and they’d be mad and waving sticks at us shouting, “A googla pleegla ba ba boo! Sritchy meetcha fee fee!”

I have no idea what that means.  I don’t speak Stupid B.C.

Rawr.

So this guy walks up to me last week, looks me up and looks me down .  Scowls.  Then up and down again.  I can see the gears moving in his tiny brain.  He starts muttering something about me not being “scientifically accurate” or something.  Starts pointing out my flaws like somebody said, “Look at that dinosaur.  Please list his flaws.”

“His arms are too big, his head is out of proportion with his body, he has an incorrect number of teeth, and he is about 35 feet too short and six tons too light.  Also, he should be in Utah.”

Come to find out later it was Matt Lamanna from the Carnegie Museum of Natural History and he’s supposed to be some kind of “dinosaur expert.”

This is me, holding up two clawed hands to make a big fat W.  Whatever!  I am a work of art.  A specimen, if you will.  I am perfect just as I am no matter what the dude with seven PhDs will tell you or publish in a scientific journal.

Rawr.

There is apparently an open house happening today at AIP as evidenced by the hustle and bustle of the staff.

If you go, be sure to stop by and say hi to your good friend Rex.  I’ll be that dinosaur in the corner making polite conversation and sipping a cappuccino whilst I nibble on the bloody carcass of a pterodactyl.

Don’t tell PETA.  I think the pterodactyl is on their protected list or their cherished list or their list of Things We’ll Get Naked For.

But it’s on my list of Delicious Things That Are Hard To Catch.

Rawr.

A dinosaur.  With a blog.

Forget Web 2.0.  This is Web 2,000,000 BC right here.

Stick around kids.  It’s about to get all prehistoric up in here.

Rawr.