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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.