Girl, as a California Towhee, your taxonomy status might be debated, but your status on “Whether-or-Not-You-Should-Live-in-My-Apartment” is not.  Go back to that chaparral where you belong.  And take those tail feathers you left in my sink with you.

Honey, you need to molt that exoskeleton, get a pedipalpicure, and get those 15 children off your back for a good hour.  A few hours glowing under that black light and you’ll be doing the promenade a deux in no time, girl.  And watch out for cannibals.  Those males are everywhere.

Don’t you act all high and mighty with me, you barbed-tongue monotreme.  I know you’re not just laying those eggs to be ironic.

Psh, you call that pentaradial symmetry?  Girl, they should change your scientific genus from Pisaster to Disaster.  The only boy you’re gonna get with that posture is one you regenerated from your own severed limbs.

Girl, you need to quit hanging out with those barnacles.  And don’t you give me that “it’s obligate commensalism” shit.  No boy wants to see you spy-hopping around covered in aggregating arthropods.

Boy, don’t blame the temperature of your nest as a baby for being a weak ass archosaur.  I’ve seen better death rolls in a bakery with a B rating.

Girl, it might be Black Friday, but I don’t care if you are the largest living predator since the extinction of the thylacine, you did not just take that dead wombat from me.

Sweetie, no amount of symbiotic algae is going to hide the fact that you account for 2/3 of this rainforest’s terrestrial mammalian biomass.

Girl, you need to get your Ampullae of Lorenzini checked, that male’s electrical field was weaker than that guy who turned out to be a remora.

Honey, you couldn’t form a long term pair bond if you had all the sand eels in the world in your beak.