F*ck You, I'm a Platypus!

Let me begin again, in a fashion that I am becoming quite comfortable with, by asking a rhetorical question: how can I fully and successfully relate to you the sheer, nut-blasting awesomeness of that most radical of monotremes, that patch-quilt of insanity and super powers, the mother-fucking platypus?!

If the animal kingdom was the X-Men, then the platypus would be Wolverine. If Australia was the DC universe, he’d be Batman. If nature was a bunch of kids playing cops and robbers in the 30s, he’d be the little dickhead claiming he’s wrapped in a force field, waving around an imaginary laser-gun and screaming, “You can’t kill me!”
The platypus’s physical and biological makeup makes God look like Dr Frankenstein if Dr Frankenstein had played too many video games as a kid – or that, conversely, while under a sudden, unexpected and completely misguided desire to bond (an affliction that has been known to strike many a father without warning) God tossed a few DIY packs Old Nick’s way, chiming; “Come on, son. Let’s see if you and the old man don’t share a keen interest in taxidermy.”
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