Wormrobinsquirrel

by Garret Tufte, who has a degree in Creative Writing (and traditional literature as well, but apparently the jackasses won’t let you get 2 English degrees) and minor in Film. Likes: Eatin’, drinkin’, smokin’, and lookin’ pretty. Dislikes: anything that gets in the way of Likes.

A worm creeps. He stops for a second, lifts his unmistakable head, peers sightless, then creeps further. The ground feels mushy and moist; it is perfectly suited to his homely needs. Not to say that his needs are homely, they are merely needs of the home variety. So he finds his place and excavates a tunnel. So the happy worm did this and did that and la-dee-da all the fuckin’ way home.

You know what happens next? He gets his liver ripped out by a happy little robin, going on his merry way. He brings the liver back to his squawking birdlings, feeds them disgusting regurgitation, feels pride that he’s done his part to perpetuate the species, and gives thanks to holy hell that he ain’t a fuckin’ worm.

But guess what? The robin gets popped in the head by a hypocrite because he done took the worm that’s supposed to aerate the dirt for his fuckin’ azaleas. So the robin drops like a rock, a disgusting mess of a rock, to the bituminous asphalt of a cul-de-sac at the end of Red Bud Lane.

The happy squirrel surveys his winter nut-stash: plenty of black walnuts, obscene amounts of acorns, but only a few pecans. He’s got to have more pecans. I mean, once he gets sick of walnuts, and then sick of acorns, what’s he gonna eat? More walnuts? I don’t fuckin’ think so! So the happy squirrel, after much deliberation, finally decides to head out for more nuts. He pokes his head out of his tree-cranny, checks both ways, and zeeiip!

The happy squirrel deftly maneuvers his body through branches and leaves, crotches and knobs, utilizing the tail-paw coordination perfected over eons. He makes no sound and does not sway the tree. A stone’s throw away, a rabbit farts. They exchange glances and a nod. The happy squirrel hops onto a picket fence and sits up for a cursory survey. Bing! Pecan tree at 10 o’clock. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! he thinks, but he does not lose his head. He keeps an eye out… Man with rifle, 9 o’clock! He panics and bolts. Pow! The gun fires, the squirrel runs, the bloody mess plops, the squirrel slips… and the UPS truck flattens him like a rolling pin.

Silly squirrel, you should have known: a convoluted set of circumstances could lead to your destruction through no fault of your own.