Squirrels. You've seen them. Pudgy face filled with joy, wonderment, and rabies. Bushy tail a brown blur as they dash from spot to spot due to their crippling stupidity. Hoarding stuff for the winter, like they deserve it more than us. Meanwhile, I, a middle-class working man, must go without any stuffs to speak of. Do I really want those nuts and assorted smelly shoe strings? No, but it would be nice to have been asked.
Hello dear reader (Side note: Notice that "reader" backwards is almost, but not really "dear". Coincidence? Yes, but not a very good one.) My name is Micah Smith. Teacher. Mentor. Guru. Ghandi. These are all nouns, but only one of them is proper. Anyway, my name and junk. I am a renowned (or at the very least, "nowned") writer of how-to's, guidelines, lessons, and life ponderings. Or any combination or those words, such as "how-ponderings life-to's guide lessons lines." Rolls right off the tongue. I am an expert on many, if not five, things: life, love, natural disasters, movie rental etiquette, and unnatural disasters. And now animals!
"But Micah," you yell at the top of your lungs to be heard over the great crowd of people chanting my name as I ride by in my flaming candy chariot, "can't animals be placed in a category with natural disasters?" Good question, yelling bystander. But that is a stupid question. Animals are not natural. Animals are godless killing, or excrementing, machines. Pretty godless either way. I will spin a timeless parable for you, reader. Like that of Cinderella, but with less singing and fat, mentally handicapped mice.
Last week, pause for dramatic effect, I was pooped on by a baby sugar glider. To protect the identity of the innocent-until-proven-guilty-but-definitely-freaking-guilty party, we will call this sugar glider Pepito. I had arrived at a meeting in a timely fashion, at least four hours before the scheduled time, and a woman (we'll call Mitch) walked in carrying a zebra-striped tote with two sugar gliders. Zebra stripes. Ztrike one. They slept soundly, dreaming of disemboweling humans until Ben Fritz (whom we'll call Ben Fritz) removed the male from his lil' stripy cage. After an hour I noticed that the animal had not yet disemboweled Ben Fritz, as is their way. None of the signs of evil intent could be seen in the small rodent. No devil horns or absurdly pointy goatee. But this could easily be explained by an inability to grow facial hair, or horns. Also, it hadn't burned the American flag, or burned a copy of a Nickelback album (the other kind of burn - the fire one is acceptable in this scenario).
So I held Pepito. By God, how I held him. Planets formed and suns died in that moment, universes trillions of miles away felt the impact of two of God's creations, once mortal enemies, now making contact that shattered notions of life as we know it. Souls melded together, as if to shout, "THIS IS PRETTY COOL I GUESS!"
And then he pooped and peed and junk. It was gross, I was wearing a new shirt. But alas, this is the way of animals. Untamed and pooping everywhere. They have no comprehension of our customs and civilization. It's probably a safe bet that no animals even watched the Royal Wedding. And I know, like, at least two people who did. And I saw highlights of it a week later so I'm good.
To Be Continued and Then Finished After Said Continuation...
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