Sloths

So I bought a place right outside the Selva Bananito wildlife reserve in South America. It’s a perfect place to take care of my two new rescued three-toed sloths. The poor things were trying to escape from that horrible reserve at a super-sonic slow pace. Luckily, I was there to help them. So I’m standing in the kitchen, drinking a white vinegar/carrot juice and rum, when I realize that Juan is acting confused again. “Te dije que quiero chocolate pana en las paredes que idiot!” I yell. It’s like he’s never been asked to glue chocolate covered corduroy fabric to living room walls before. These people are strange. He works for 20 cents an hour, so I guess I’ll have to deal with his weirdness. I’m a little worried about Mrs. Thundersmirch. She just seems to sleep a lot in the tree Juan planted in the bedroom. She comes down from her tree to crap about twice a day. It takes her 7 hours to climb down from a freaking 6 foot tree. LAZY…Tweaks is a little more active. I caught him scratching at the back door the other night. Maybe I should put in a sloth door so they can come and go. So I’m stapling lunch meat to my window shades when Juan walked in with that same confused look on his face, asking me if he could go home. “GO! But empty the ashtrays first!” I shout. I think he’s a little slow. It’s my house! Who says I have to wear pants? I mean really. I love my sloths, but I’m starting to miss North America…