A Wish for Wings That Work

Wings, Mr. Santy Claus,

I need new wings.

Not fancy wings,

just plain-Jane, low-rent, barely bent,

home-grown, bare-bone, off-the-shelf,

two-part, Kmart, no-frills flappers.

They would be an improvement over my own.

As your records should show, I am a bird.

Specifically, a penguin,

an embarrassing accident of birth

for which I do not blame my mother.

I prefer to blame

Congress.

For the first time in my life,

I have a request for Your Plumpness.

Let me start by telling you about my life lately.

In fact, just this morning.

Fly, fly, fly.

Fly, fly, fly, fly.

Fly, fly, fly, fly.

I almost fly. I almost fly. I almost fly. I almost did.

Ack!

No cats. No cats. Especially no Bill the Cats!

Fly, fly, fly, fly, fly.

Fly, fly, fly, fly.

Fly, fly, fly, fly.

Fly, fly, fly, fly, fly, fly.

And like a thousand mornings before this one,

it was plain that a penguin can say the word fly,

but he simply cannot do it.

Why don't penguins have wings that work?

This! They call this a wing?

This is a bad joke.

This is built-in obsolescence.

I'm an Edsel.

I might as well be a dung beetle.

Or a fly-infested, worm-infused,

molded, mildewed, scrap of rotten banana.

Or a network executive.

A bad day for flying, anyhoo.

No lift. Heavy ozone.

Plus too many stupid cats during the take-off roll.

Oh, got a little perspiration on your puss there, Billy-boy.

You also have a rubbish can up to your nether regions.

You smell like last week's Brussels sprouts.

I suggested that you move into the recyclables can, didn't I?

Some years ago, Father Christmas,

I rescued old Bill from the University science lab.

They replaced his brains with tater tots.

I have no need for a sidekick, sir.

But still, he'd like to be my best buddy.

But then, stinkbugs might like to dance the Watusi in my shorts, too.

I mean, you've got to draw the line somewhere.

(SINGING) I woke up this morning

My wings ain't no use

My butt down on my shoes

I got those flapless, earthbound blues

Lately, Father Christmas,

my social life hasn't gotten much higher off the ground

than my feet.

Hey, look! I'm a bird!

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth!

Honey, I'll be taking lunch on the moon today!

What's the red thing on the neck?

A turbo-prop? So where's the exhaust?

Don't answer that.

I suspect they sputter more than flutter.

They're obviously jealous of my nose.

Anybody would be.

Huh?

Hairball!

Get out of the way. Don't touch it!

Hey, spread out.

Get away from that. Don't touch that thing!

Good morning, Truffles!

Merry Christmas, Opus.

Always a pleasure to run into someone lower on the food chain.

Did you know you have a large rutabaga on your nose?

This is my nose.

Excuse me, I'm late for my support group.

Surely, you're not persisting in your flights of fancy, huh?

Myself,

I am perfectly comfortable with my self-image.

You would not see me trying to fly.

I hope not.

You're a pig.

Rhinoceros. Pig.

Rhinoceros.

Pig.

P-O-R-K.

You know, the other white meat.

How about a water buffalo?

They been giving out those lobotomy coupons

in the Little Friskies again?

Well, I appreciate your support on the way to my support group.

Now wait outside and please try not to give anybody rabies.

You're late, Mr. Opus.

Everyone's waiting.

There was a rhinoceros on Second Avenue.

Uh-huh, save it.

Good afternoon, everybody.

I'd like to welcome a new member to our group.

Opus, please introduce yourself.

Hello.

My name is Opus,

and I am a flapoholic.

Hello, Opus.

I accept that my life has become ruled

by an obsessive need for flight.

I...

Albatross!

Just be glad your wife didn't leave you for an albatross!

Good, George. Confront your feelings.

My puny kiwi wings weren't good enough for Dolores.

Oh, no, no.

She had to have an albatross

with great big long wings.

He was on hormones.

You heard me, read my beak.

Hormones!

Uh, maybe we shouldn't be confronting those particular feelings.

Speaking of feelings,

darned if I don't feel like a Boeing 747.

I'm cleared for take-off!

Good! Let's confront our feelings about that one!

So what if they're small?

Some women prefer small wings.

What did Dolores want, quantity or quality?

If she wants them big, marry the space shuttle, you shrew!

Space shuttle! Watch it!

Oh my, Dolores.

Oh, don't you know...

Now, we're getting somewhere.

Pull up and out of here!

I'd run, I'd jump...

Shake and bake, shake and bake,

shake and bake, shake and bake!

Excuse me.

Is this cockroach cross-dressers in crisis?

I want to talk to the Colonel!

At this point, Father Christmas,

there was only one option for a penguin whose wings only sputter.

I was compelled to take the laws of physics into my own hands.

I became an aeronautic vigilante.