I’m listening to my friend talk about the vandalism of fucking squirrels.  His words begin to fade into blah, blah, blah and I take a hike into the kitchen.  I’m looking out the kitchen window and I see two squirrels fucking in my backyard.  Now the words “fucking squirrels” begins forming in my mind as I watch the spectacle.

A part of me thinks about rattling the screen door or going outside and scaring them off.  I ain’t getting any so why should they?  I could be a real dick and fuck up their fun.  But in the end, I really don’t have the heart to do such a thing.

I just start hear the phrase “fucking squirrels” echoing in my brain.  My friend chanting “fucking squirrels” resounds like a mantra.  I just close the blinds leaving the squirrels to their own device.  I’ll head back out to the other room with a bag of Doritos and wonder if a grown man is still ranting and raving ab out furry tailed rodents.  He is still going on about it and I’m not really sure what to make of any of this shit.



Published by fuchebuyahoocom

poet, philosopher and comic. Philadelphia born but suburban bred.

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