I Raped an Elephant For Cash

A few months ago, I attended the opening day for a new branch of the bank I use with a few of my family members. It must be said that this outing was a particularly enjoyable one. There were many things to get excited about: the extremely large and extremely placid dog outside the main entrance which didn’t seem to mind that it was being molested by every child that went into the bank; high-tech banking screens that appeared to be black unless you were standing directly in front of them (which was particularly exciting for me as it meant anyone standing behind or beside me in the queue couldn’t see just how poverty-stricken I really am); free pens that would later sit around collecting dust on my desk… But all of these exciting things together weren’t anywhere near as exciting as the best thing of all.

I first saw it while I was amongst the crowd of people jammed into the bank. It was as if it was calling my name.

There, on top of a table, was a stack of yellow elephant moneyboxes. And they seemed to radiate hope. 

Suddenly, it felt like nothing and no-one existed except me and that elephant on the top of the pile. It appeared to me to be bathed in a spotlight of pure white amazingness, and the look in its adorable little eyes seemed to say, ‘Take me home.’

At that moment, one of the bank staff approached me. It was as if Fate was working in my favour.

The man was very nice and said that I was welcome to have an elephant moneybox if I wanted to. I think possibly he regretted making that particular decision in his life.

It didn’t bother me that a yellow plastic elephant moneybox might be seen as a rather childish thing for a sixteen-year-old girl to want or own. It didn’t bother me that everyone else in the bank in possession of a yellow plastic elephant moneybox was at least half my age. In fact, I didn’t see myself as an anomaly at all.

Even if people thought it was weird for a sixteen-year-old girl to be carrying a plastic elephant around, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except my elephant. We had a bond, I believed, right from the start.

She made me happy, and nothing could ever change that. Or so I thought.

These elephant money boxes were designed with a coin slot in the middle of the back, and a plug in the middle of the stomach. The plug resembled a very large bellybutton, or a very large anus-hole which had also forgotten exactly where it was supposed to be. I assumed the latter to be the case here, as the elephant had no anus where one would imagine it ought to be, and I’d never heard of elephants having bellybuttons. Plus, it would be incredibly inaccurate – not to mention rude – of the manufacturer if they had designed the elephant without a waste disposal area. Elephants have to crap too.

Anyway, the function of the anus-plug was obviously to allow the removal of coins from the elephant at will. Upon discovering this mechanism, I decided that if I really loved my elephant, I had to prove it to her by using her for her designed purpose.

So, once I got home from the bank opening, I deposited every coin I had on my person into her coin slot. 

Fairly soon after the last coin was safely in my elephant’s belly, I realised I actually needed some of them.

But this was only a small bump in my beautiful relationship I had with my elephant, which could easily be overcome, as she had come with a convenient removable anus-plug for stress-free coin access. I went to remove the plug from my elephant’s bellybutton/anus. 

It was no use. The plug – which was theoretically designed to be removed by a six-year-old – would not budge. It was quite content to stay firmly wedged in my elephant’s anus and would not be moving anytime soon fuck-you-very-much. After minutes of grappling with the plug to no avail, I realised I would have to resort to more drastic measures. 

I picked up my nail file and attempted to use it to prise open the plug.

It was to no avail.

By this point, I was beginning to feel hurt and confused. How could my beautiful elephant, so lovely and innocent when we first met, turn on me like this? How could she steal my money for herself and refuse to give it back? However, regardless of the pain and brokenheartedness she caused me, I hid my emotions well and focused on a constructive way of fixing the problem at hand.

One thing the nail file attack had taught me, though, was that if I was to succeed in my attempts to retrieve my change from the belly of the demon-elephant, I would need a stronger weapon. So I found the strongest weapon I owned.

My Swiss Army Knife. And the wielding of the knife, of course, warranted what I like to call my ‘serious fucking business face’.

I then proceeded to mercilessly drive my knife into the elephant’s closed-off anus.

Now imagine for a second that you are a doting, caring, and above all awesome mother, going to harmlessly check on your demure well-behaved daughter, and upon popping your head around the door of her room, you are greeted by this sight:

My mother, perhaps concerned for her own safety, asked me what I was doing. I didn’t think

would be an acceptable answer, so I said something to the effect of,

She took the elephant off me and went away with it. A few minutes later, she came back with the elephant in one hand and the anus-plug in the other. (My mother is magic, for those of you who aren’t already aware.) I was able to retrieve my coins, and my elephant and I were friends once more.