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Brakkworld
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Name: Brakk
Country: Kyrgyzstan
Gender: Male
Interests: Mostly sitting in his house, walking on the old, dirty carpet and filling out my tax return forms in his spare time.
Expertise: Brakk is an exceptional cook. He finds creative ways to cook with algae and flies...all the taste with half the calories!
Occupation: Unemployed/Between Jobs
Industry: Banking/Finance
Message: message me
Member Since:
1/17/2004
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| Today in the mail, I recieved an almond-colored, rectangular package with holes punched in the top: my order from Kyrgyzstan! Trembling with anticipation (mingled with an untimely urge to use the restroom), I cut the plastic bands holding the lid down. An awful stench filled my nostrils. I feared the worst: my order had died en-route to the U.S.
Then I heard a scrabbling noise and saw two little arms moving furiously, trying to dig the corner away. As it turns out, turtles smell bad - even baby ones. This one had not died at all. In fact, the trip had invogorated the one-inch-in-diameter reptilian beast.
And also, I named him Brakk. | | |
| Let me back up the turtle train. Some of you may want to know why Brakk had to be imported, and I can explain it to you in three letters: F-D-A. A rash of salmonella poisoning in the early '70's, coupled with the US tendency to freak out over small things, caused the Food and Drug Administration to ban turtles under 4 inches in diameter from pet stores.
"What's the deal with that?" you ask. Well, baby turtles are energetic and learn things quickly, relatively speaking. Meanwhile, turtles that are 4 inches in diameter move slowly and are too old to learn proper hygeine. With that being said, Brakk and I have made a pact already to keep him squeaky clean and to topple the FDA.
Don't worry, this healthy, rebellious attitude to topple authority is instilled in all Kyrgyz inhabitants, turtles included. Brakk and I talked about the current infrastructure of the country since its separation from the Soviet Union in 1991. We also talked about what vegetables he would like to eat.
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| Today was a great day for Brakk. He got to climb up and slide down a ramp. Also, I made him a home. It consists of three things. 1) a City of Grand Rapids recycling bin 2) a hole-punched Folger's® can 3) a pink butter dish.
The recycling bin was box-shaped, which I found appropriate, since Brakk is a box turtle. Also, it was blue, which is Brakk's third favorite color. Some of you might wonder "why wouldn't Brakk get his favorite color?" To this I say: there are not many options when you are working with a small budget, and, mind you, I am. Also, I am wary of my turtle becoming too powerful.
I have seen too many cases of Pet Masters. I have seen the lofty, knowing expression on a furball-of-a-dog (complete w/cute sweater), walking her "master" whenever the urge strikes. I have seen the knowing eyes of a pudgy cat as it sprawls on its very own couch that its "master" had to designate for it. Sadly, many pets are nothing more than conniving hypnotists. But not Brakk. He nodded as I explained that my strict demeanor came not from lack of love, but rather from an innate fear of being owned by my possessions or spoiling my pets rotten.
With that, I filled a pink butter dish with water and set it in the corner, along with some fresh sprouts, which were gone in a second. Upon watching him consume, I realized that we would have to draw up some ground rules. I explained my hopes, as a pet owner, concerning his "waste management." After a lengthy, somewhat awkward discussion, it was decided that I would cut a hole in the side of the recycling bin and attatch a Folger's can, with several small holes facing downward to form some kind of an outhouse. Brakk is a very private creature, but gave me the "claws up" after using the contraption. In case you were wondering, I set the whole contraption over the drain in the basement to keep things tidy. And also to prevent my roommate from finding Brakk. He hates turtles, and I wouldn't want him finding any Kyrgyzstan cargo stashed away in our house. Shhhh... | | |
| Some countries are fascinated with turtles. Those countries are (in order): The U.S., The Galapagos Islands, and California. Of these countries, one has advanced turtle communication to the most gnarly extent: California.
Kyrgyzstan has very few words that mean the equivalent of "cowabunga" or "tubular." So, I took it upon myself to teach Brakk the history of turtle brotherhood and rhetoric, particularly as conveyed by California's Fab Four: Leonardo (the leader), Donatello (the mechanically inclined one), Raphael (the smart-mouth), and Michaelangelo (the party dude).
After filling Brakk's "Welcome to L.A." shot glass with worms and compiling a large bowl of salsa and Matador® tortilla chips for myself, we sat down to watch the thrilling, historical documentary entitled When Mid-Nineties Toxicity meets Cuora Flavomarginata of Southern California. commonly known as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: The Movie.
The movie was progressing nicely until the part where Shredder (the "bad guy") smacks Splinter (the large rat creature) across the face. Suddenly, I spat. Not at furious outrage towards Shredder, but because I felt something writhing within my mouth. I heard Brakk making wheezing noises: turtle laughter. Upon closer inspection, I realized that Brakk had slipped me a worm from his shot glass. Although this was thoroughly distasteful and untimely (as this was during a highly emotional scene) I was pleased to see that the laughing little armored beast next to me had a sense of humor and was enjoying himself in the United States.
By the end of the film, I think that Brakk was thoroughly impressed. I heard him mutter, "Tubular, dude" as he climbed the ramp leading up to his recycle-bin house. Judging by the conversations we've had so far, I can only imagine what kind of havok would ensue if some radioactive waste seeped up through the sewer and made contact with Brakk. Hopefully that never happens.
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| Today was a distressing day for me. For starters, Brakk bit me. Then I had to kick him under the couch. Also, the obstacle course had to be dismantled before ever being put to good use. But actually those things are out of order.
First things first: I had taken Brakk out of his house and placed him in an obstacle course designed from some old magazines, shoeboxes and shoes in the living room. "It will be tubular," I promised. Brakk was still eyeing the course suspiciously, when THUD- THUD-THUD the ominous sound of footsteps on the porch sounded an alarm in my head. Without thinking, I swiftly kicked Brakk under the couch as, simultaneously, the door swung open and my insidious roommate stepped in. He scoffed at the mess on the living room floor, "You doin' some cleaning, Freak?"
"Uhhh, yeah," I said. Then Brakk started making clicking noises from under the couch. "What's that?" my roommate, whom I will now refer to as Thud, questioned. "Oh, that's just the old furnace," I responded. "This is such an ancient place."
Thud appeared disinterested already and made his way upstairs to watch tv. Phew! Disaster averted.
However, I realized that in an emotional sense, disaster had already occurred. Brakk sat under the couch like a hockey puck in the corner of the rink, abandoned after a long practice. His little claws and head were tucked deep inside his shell as I reached under the couch to pull him ouuu- OUCH! Brakk gave me a nice incision, causing me to go fetch a band-aid before trying again.
This time I knew better. I tried to reason with him. But trust had been broken. Finally, Brakk said, "Not cool, dude. I think if you get me a 'uborka' I might be able to go on living normally."
"What's a uborka?" I wondered.
Brakk informed me that he would not be moving until I found out what it was. But I still don't know. Does anyone know? I want Brakk to come out of his shell again. | | |
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