The Aphis ovidii is a vicious predator of leafy shrubs and shrubby trees, devouring the flesh of plants and fungi alike, gorging itself on their vital fluids. Its society is brutal, nasty and short, reaching less than two metres in height. It has no culture to speak of, save a fondness of spike-tongued gossip and a love of tit and nit-picking. The wool of the Aphis ovidii is weak, unkempt and rough, like the hair-shirt of the masochist and follock. It uses its horns to stifle debate and get its points across, while it wears buttons over its eyes to ensure it sees only the truth of all matters as decided by their sap-suckling Godling and God in tandem with the Wooly ghost. Life for the ovidii is thus a joy-sapping, dulling drudgery of sucking and tucking into plant matters and matters of woolyism.
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