“Best place I’ve ever lived “
Gosh, I love this place. The hot springs, the nice scenery, and the fact that no one can tell if you’ve farted because the whole place always smells like a fart. The visitors are always so friendly and enjoy getting up close and personal with us. I feel honored when thousands of people a year show no commonsense fear of such a large animal with horns and decide to take selfies with me. I try to show my appreciation with a head nudge since I can’t hug them, but then they start screaming and bleeding.
A lot of my new friends get taken away in ambulances…
“Is this a parking lot or a national park?
The traffic is pretty bad. My herd just tries to peacefully walk from one part of the park to another, but these cars line up behind us and are unhappy with our brisk three mile-per-hour speeds.
If there’s a glimpse of an elk nearby, all the cars stop in our way, too. I don’t know why elk get all the attention. There’s actually a song about wanting a home where the buffalo roam—we’re the stars here!
Anyway, we need to work on traffic congestion, but the park rangers don’t seem to understand our entreaties, probably because we can’t write, can't talk, and haven’t learned ASL. Plus, when we finally see them and rush toward them to plead our case, they get bug-eyed and run away. It’s pretty rude.
“Alright, if you can tolerate the obnoxious elk neighbors.”
The fall is so noisy. Our horny elk neighbors won’t stop bugling. Like, we get it, you’re ready for love, but the rest of us don't want to listen to your crazy sexual proclivities.
Keep it in the meadow, you weirdos.
If that’s not bad enough, the elk start head-butting each other out of sheer horniness for all to see. It’s like living in a frat house. Way to lower the class of the place, elk. What are you going to do next? Play grass pong? Apart from that, the park is very pretty and you get used to the sulfur smell… mostly.
“Way too popular to actually be cool.”
I was looking for a trendy place to relocate, but any and all bison show up here. It’s not exclusive enough. You should see the riffraff they let in here: matted fur, dull horns, so desperate for attention that they don’t even maul tourists who try to take pictures. My calves and I may make a move to the Everglades. We may have to fend off alligators and crocodiles, but at least we’d be on the cutting edge of bison life.
“Pretty, but there are bison paparazzi everywhere.”
Yellowstone has its good parts and bad parts. The good parts? It’s really pretty, there are some paved roads for good aerobic activities and bumper cars, and the eating is good. The bad parts? There’s always someone taking a picture of me no matter what I’m doing: walking, eating, relieving myself, pawing the ground ready to attack them.
They don’t respect my privacy. Sometimes I try to turn around so they’ll get the hint that I don’t want to be photographed. None of it works, and I’m sure there are pictures of my butt and my out-of-context rage all over the internet.