Dogmesticikitty

The snow refused to charitably yield and continued falling for weeks on end, the resultant piles indeed insurmountable as commerce and education could no longer function.

Even the army was unable to clear the vast voluminous onslaught of flakes, and people were locked down in grim seclusion with no emancipating end in sight.

For some, it was plain old February the dead of winter putrid and zombified, it was just a matter of one more board game before the resolute sun would resplendently shine.

But this time it didn't, the unabashed snow snidely fell with blanketing tempestuousness, as emphatic worries gradually increased with distressing implacable disregard. 

It felt like the time of the caveman as cloistered hysterics began to erupt, and too much time had awkwardly passed to relieve the tension with play and song.

When, to make matters worse, domestic cats and dogs revolted. 

And forged wild hunting parties of their own. 

From which safe refuge could not be found.

It's utterly absurd.

Like our cherished pets would ever wildly revolt against us!

It doesn't make sense if contemporary logic is keenly taken into universal account.

Still, the scene where the gigantic pack of dogs vehemently descended on the ________ team, was crazy intense and filled with emotion through the creative use of traditional plays. 

I suppose it was a bit cliché to have the army taken out first, to make the film that much more harrowing as the snow continued to fall.

The battle at the sequestered nunnery between the sisters and the barrage of cats, was spiritually sinister in its death-defying bedlam, no doubt ill-suited to Sunday school.

Throughout, the bewildered Trundle family oddly observes the ancient imbroglio, scholastically endowed and academically inclined they can't explain the pestilent reckoning.

I loved how the hibernating animals emerged from their slumber to save the town, passionately criticizing the dogs and cats for casting off their traditional domesticity. 

Ending the film with the bucolic, Just another god damn February, left me somewhat overcome with joy, the bizarro crisis having been averted, not bad for animation. 

The Island of Dr. Moreau

Lost, adrift, on the vast imposing interminable Pacific, rage erupting, thirst infuriating, until rescue emerges, with aloof repose. 

Douglas is taken to an isolated island where he's given time to rest and recuperate, still taken aback when he distressingly notices, that his room's been tightly locked down.

Not one to embrace incoherency, he soon picks the inordinate lock, and begins spying on the strange inhabitants as they experimentally express themselves. 

But lo and cross-breedingly behold, he's rather shocked to invariably find, that the secluded scientists working on the island, have created a colony of industrious mutants.

He tries to expediently escape but finds himself cut off from aquatic crafts, then chaotically immersed in a self-contained world presided over by a distant demagogue. 

It turns out he's applied his genius to the novel creation of a forbidden realm, wherein which beasts must cast off their ways and politely live like civilized humans. 

Unfortunately, order is upheld through the authoritarian dissemination of pain, each hybrid animal arrhythmically attached to a remote control which punishes disobedience. 

For most of the modest citizens the rules aren't particularly hard to follow.

But some question Moreau's civility.

And covet his daunting absolute impetus. 

Ah the perfect world idealistically enrapturing innate truth and justice, perhaps even flourishing here and there at times before newfound tensions and jealousies disrupt things. 

A logical world delectably defining codes of conduct and cerebral sentiments, through which harmony and balance are perennially restored through the judicious elevation of enlivening discipline. 

Alas, illustrious logic and reified reasonability don't prosper unchallenged, and the people lacking control of the spirited unity seek the recodification of the rules and regulations. 

Often trying to make a complicated system too simple (politics), or a simple system too complicated (commerce), while prohibiting the attainment of bountiful resources, the accumulation of which would pacify many.

But not all, the desire for power madly drives the overly ambitious to fits of frenzy.

Moreau's island destroyed and reconstructed every day.

Ingenious creation.

Dispersed manifold.

Spiderhead

The pursuit of manufactured obedience follows the pharmaceutical path, as Spiderhead's solo unattached dismal warden despotically pursues reckless inactivity. 

Unsupervised with serious responsibility he develops several potential new drugs, and tests them on his prison's inmates every decision he makes of his own free will.

Fret not concerned enthused viewer, he wants to keep things friendly and fun, and even strikes up acquaintances with his test subjects while becoming addicted to the drugs himself.

They're far off so far away inimically isolated from spirited criticism, idyllic mad spontaneous digressions only provocatively questioned by one rogue assistant. 

Seeking to make billions on joy and happiness not to mention free form conversation, he still can't dishonour discreet somnambulism with soporific sequestered sedulity. 

Problem: to make sure the obedience drug works he needs to challenge ethical parameters, and see if people will do horrifying things simply because they've been recommended.

Thus, he convinces a test subject to administer his "paranoia" drug to another, but "paranoia" isn't really the right word, it rather encourages excessive terror. 

The subject's driven to suicide after the dose is accidentally augmented. 

But genuine guilt indeed manifests.

With the mass megalomania in jeopardy. 

Here we go again with the pursuit of hegemony unilaterally applied, attempting to accomplish sadistic ends to alarmingly overwhelm free choice and expression.

Odd how so many people spend so much time consuming arts and entertainment, while also cutting down creative synergies, the 1970s and David Bowie were miracles.

The irony let loose in Spiderhead is that independence itself seeks mindless automatons, who'll listen and follow the guidance of whomever no matter what the proactive cost.

Like the dreamy demagogue preaching equality who locks everything down after the revolution, Abnesti proceeds to definitively ensure no one else like him will ever co-exist. 

As others have likely suggested, is it not better to mal/adroitly attune, independent instincts to constructive endeavours to promote diversity and innovation?

Without such inherent expression does decay not metastasize with fetid impersonality, and prevent the development of sundry alternatives from multivariably delineating enchanted metamorphosis? 

Never stop writing poems just because you're convinced someone else is better. 

Keep writing absurdity ad infinitum. 

Who cares if no one else is interested?