Among the many projects I will never get to is one titled “Loris in Wonderland.” 
“Mary Anne!” the White Rabbit shouted, flecks of spittle flying from behind his enormous teeth. “Mary Anne, where are my gloves and my fan?!”
The loris’s name was not Mary Anne.
The loris’s name was not Mary Anne.
The cake read EAT ME and the bottle read DRINK ME, but lorises are functionally illiterate (except for one particularly insufferable cousin who had been to Oxford and would not stop talking about it) so the loris ignored both.
“We’re all mad here,” said the Hatter. “I’m mad. You’re mad.”
The loris was uncomfortable with armchair diagnoses, but felt it would be unproductive to argue with a man who was trying to make a sandwich out of a pocket watch.
The loris was uncomfortable with armchair diagnoses, but felt it would be unproductive to argue with a man who was trying to make a sandwich out of a pocket watch.
“You must make a friend of Time,” said the Hatter, gesturing grandiosely, “and then Time will—“
“Holy crap,” cried the March Hare, “it’s eating the Dormouse!”
The loris had assumed that the small rodent had been provided as part of the refreshments and swallowed guiltily.
“Holy crap,” cried the March Hare, “it’s eating the Dormouse!”
The loris had assumed that the small rodent had been provided as part of the refreshments and swallowed guiltily.
“I suppose you hate being three inches high!” said the Caterpillar, who was beginning to work itself into quite a state. “I suppose you think it is wretched!”
The loris had said nothing of the sort, as lorises don’t talk.
The loris had said nothing of the sort, as lorises don’t talk.
“Off with her head!” screamed the Queen of Hearts. “Guards! Seize that girl!”
The loris wondered who they were talking about.
The loris wondered who they were talking about.
• • •
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