So I’m sitting here on my front porch, contemplating our fragile world in the rocking chair where I often sip bourbon, because dammit, if I can’t write like Faulkner I’m at least gonna cosplay as him.
And as the sun sets, as all around me is the bounteous harmony of nature, the crickets chirping and the birds trilling, there’s only one false note: the incessant crackle of acorn husks hitting the driveway. Again and again and again.
I’ve got squirrels everywhere around me. I’ve captured a few trying to break into my house, and I deport them across a five-lane highway or a river where they have to deal with other, possibly racist squirrels.
But the ones that I can’t catch … oh, those little bastards hang out high in the trees over my driveway, throwing off their acorn husks like so empty beer cans. These idiots are just a GO JUNIOR away from full-on redneckery.
Speaking of which: when I was younger, I was playing at a neighbor’s house when his brother blasted a squirrel out of a tree with the cold, dead eye of a damn World War II sniper. The brother grabbed the dead squirrel by the tail. When I asked what he was going to do with it, the answer was simple: “I’m’a cook him up.”
We laughed and went back to doing whatever it is eight-year-olds do in backyards. We thought it was a joke … at least until we saw the headless, pawless, tailless squirrel bobbing merrily in a pot of boiling water on the stove an hour later. (The South, everybody!)
So, yeah, screw you, redneck squirrels. You don’t even get the goodwill bump that raccoons got thanks to “Guardians of the Galaxy.” Get down here and clean this mess up. I’ve still got my old neighbors’ phone number.