There is no worse way to die than death by sloth. Take a look into the eyes of a sloth. Two pools of terror. His eyeballs lock up with yours, and you realize their evolutionary path has wound through places you can’t fathom. I’m pretty sure they started out in the scorching red beaver sores of hell. To peer into those pupils is to peer into a vacuum of lucid malice. Don’t be a pussy, don’t peek in for a few measly seconds- I want you to take a good look. Snoop around for five minutes, and you’ll learn that their climb back to Earth was a God-damned nightmare. Thousands upon thousands went up in flames on the trek, like Christmas trees on a bonfire. Their refreshment situation, a petty asterisk in comparison, was a whole other headache. Being the last-minute escape that it was, they could only scrounge a handful of backpacks and three to four water bottles. Worse still, there’s an ongoing shortage of water in hell, and an outrageous surplus of milk. Tough break. Hunched over lava-soaked crags, trying to catch a breather before their next of kin erupted into flames, they had nothing but hot milk to wet their whistles. I’m telling you, the pupils of a sloth tell this tale and countless others. Black Metal bands have been citing “Eyeball of Sloth” as a creative touchstone in their work for many years.

So please, stop what you are doing. Put down your Tahiti Treat and imagine that you’re tied to a chair in the middle of the rain forest. You glance to the canopy. A mellow, three-toed son of a bitch locks eyes with you. He’s strung upside down from his vine like a hammock. Tidy little Scott Baio haircut, claws like banana peppers. His eyes meet yours. He licks his lips, and then winks at you. Chewbacca dressed as Scott Baio for Halloween is about to eat you to death. How do you feel about that? It takes him half an hour just to reach the ground. Once he gets to his fours, it’s a three hour count-down to death by sloth. Three hours to sit in that chair, and stare into the soul of the goofy looking bastard that’s about to end your life. I’ve always thought they’ve been a little too deliberate with their movements, and their glances express a degree of self-awareness that I am not at all comfortable with. Perhaps it’s the painful speed of their movements that create an “image” of deliberation, but I don’t buy it. I’m positive they’re up to something.

I know you Sloth, you wire-haired prick, and I know you speak English too. I’m cock-sure of it. When I hear you speak, I know it’s going be a smug, biting tongue that snaps a bare crack of wit. You wear a monocle when I’m not looking, and your fur (when groomed) looks like a pompous cardigan threaded from a fabric that I cannot afford. The worst part is, I can’t do a bloody thing about your pricky demeanor, because I’m tied to this chair in the middle of a jungle waiting for you to eat me alive. I’m the only one who knows your secrets, and they’re about to waste away in the pits of your belly.

Hopefully, I’ll be immediately reincarnated as a vengeful piece of text-shaped stool, arranged into the preceding three paragraphs. God will finally provide some concrete evidence to support his claims of omnipotence, and you’ll be exposed as the complex but seedy creature that you are.
- Shaun Roncken

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