The biped thinks he’s “artistic.” Just because he can dangle his ape-like arm out the window and fire off an out-of-focus selfie as we hurtle down Ventura Highway. Big deal. If I had an opposable thumb I’d paint the Mona Lisa and hang dry wall. Instead, I play the cards I have, and ever so gently ease my over-developed proboscis into the oncoming breeze, and take in the redolent fragrance of odoriferous bouquets His Majesty cold not begin to discern or articulate.