Congratulations Yiffers!

Furries are an oft misunderstood subculture. Sure, they wear costumes and have louder sex than they should and are, almost as a rule, never people you’d want to see naked, but they’re not bad people. Not at all. In fact many of them frequently make charitable donations to organizations they’ve responsibly researched. An even smaller subsection thereof also volunteers. Like, at shelters and stuff.

But no one notices these things when Dateline runs a piece about how vile and unsightly you are as a social group. No, they all jump on the hate train to torch-ville and force you to relocate for the third time this year, looking for another quiet suburb where you can watch your pets frolic while you tele-commute into Redmond. Well today you’re going to wake up, look at your cute-and-sexy-tiger costume and declare “No more!” to no one in particular.

You’ll roll out of bed in your jam jams and pad over to your laptop, where you’ll pull up a compiler window and start coding your brains out. In six hours you’ll be halfway done with a website for a theoretical community of furries who can live and quietly pursue their mid-level careers in peace. You’ll feel drained, so you’ll put on a bathrobe and stumble out of your front door, walking to the coffee shop where your partner works in your flippy-floppies.

You’ll fall through the door Kramer style, to the chagrin of your partner’s co-workers, before you stumble up to the counter and gasp.

“Coffee,” you’ll pant, exhausted from the effort of dragging your fat ass three blocks without the use of a Segway. Your partner will shake his head and smile, delivering the steaming hot beverage without a word.

“Samuel,” you’ll gaps at him as he sets it down, clasping his wrist. “Important.”

“Sit down,” he’ll say, patting your wrist. “I’ll take my fifteen and then we can talk. Kay?”

You’ll bob your head, stumbling to a seat and sitting with your bathrobe a little bit too open, which won’t result in the cops being called because you’ll still be wearing your jam-jams. It’ll just look awful.

After a few minutes Sam will sit down across your from you looking exhausted. He’ll have his apron wadded under his arm and he’ll look like he’s ready to go home.

“So what’s going on, hon?” he’ll ask. You’ll lay the whole plan out for him: a collective living area, located conveniently in the suburbs of Seattle, where Furries can come to just be themselves. No more judgment, no worries of discovery, no more troubles from people who just can’t accept the way you like to fuck.

Samuel will grow rapt as you go on, his exhaustion vanishing.

“Yes,” he’ll say. ‘It’s perfect.”

You’ll smile and kiss his hand, still breathing heavily, and get up to leave. Between your web-design skills and his previously useless degree in marketing you know you’ll be able to make it work. And as you shuffle home you’ll look so bright and full of hope that, for the first time in years, people will think “Wow, he looks happy” instead of “That man is revolting” when they first look at you.

But you’ll still look horrible, just so you know. Maybe do some sit-ups once or twice a week?

Congratulations Yiffers!