Baby Squirrel
by Kevin Bennett
Today, I saw
my first baby squirrel. Hardcore and manly
gentlemen, this is a message for all of you:
beware!!!
I was an
unsuspecting victim, just walking back from a
regular bout of pine-tree calisthenics (chopping
down the biggest conifer you can find and then
curling it, in typical manly lumberjack fashion)
when the little bugger skittered to the bottom of
a freshly bloomed deciduous tree and stared up at
me with Bambi eyes that could melt a diamond.
Well, I saw that cute, twitching little squirrel
face and on the spot I grew a vagina and lost my
Adam's apple.
Men, listen
carefully: Avoid baby squirrels. They are so
fiendishly adorable that they will transgender
you.
You could be
walking along, thinking about nothing but smoking
twenty of the most pungent cigars, drinking a
dark-beer keg by yourself and punching a buffalo
in the face, when suddenly a baby grey-squirrel
skitters by with its twitchy whiskers and fuzzy
tail and over-accentuated baby-squirrel
features—before I knew it I was naked in a
bubble-bath with sea-salt, listening to Celine
Dion and reading an Oprah magazine.
When I came to,
I yelped and jumped out of the water, screaming
in a high-pitched tone that made the guys outside
hope a naked chick would run out of the bathroom.
I had to
dropkick a toddler and rape a cactus just to feel
like I knew what a penis was again.
Beware baby
squirrels, they will turn your heart into
estrogenic jelly.
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