Pushing On Past the Flatulence

There is an amusing realization one reaches when studying the African savanna: Mother Nature is not a majestic artist, but a drunk civil servant on a Friday afternoon.

Take the zebra, for example. No two share the same stripe pattern—they wear their own biological fingerprints, which merge into a dizzying optical illusion to dazzle predators. Should that masterclass in camouflage fail, their backup defense mechanism is to gallop off while vigorously farting in the lion’s face. True poetry on the savanna.

Having already exhausted the comedic depths of striped flatulence, I delved into the fingerprint business and wondered: was there ever a zebra so wretchedly cursed as to be born with a stripe running squarely across its eyes like a burglar’s mask?

I began drawing them in a group, adding bowties, eyewear, and a delicate set of pearls. Suddenly, I hadn’t drawn wildlife at all—I’d landed squarely in an Agatha Christie scene. The herd had morphed into a daft collection of pompous, aristocratic snobs, utterly oblivious to the culprit hiding in plain sight among them.

Then again, there is a quiet beauty in being unique. And if you can make a couple of bucks along the way, well... far be it from me to judge.