Cultural Imperialist

"Scathing Spats on Shallow Subjects"

 

Fri Jul 28

 

2017

 
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Squirrels Are Adorable

Imagine running around in your pajamas all day, eating nuts and climbing trees. I'm not hearkening back to your childhood in Eugene, Oregon - that's what squirrels do.

And it's groin-grabbingly adorable.

They hop around on your lawn, fluffy tails twitching like an epileptic drag queen, sniffing for nuts like [poor-taste joke removed]. Rotating food in their little paws while they look around nervously, squirrels remind me of myself when I chow down on an empanada from the shop near my office. There are few things I enjoy more in the morning than watching these cranked-out proto-bunnies leap between trees, chasing each other in desperate pursuits, like James Cameron and Kathryn Bigelow.

Approach a squirrel in the park and chances are he'll sort of run alongside you at an angle, not sure whether to be intimidated or want to play. He'll scamper over and stand on two legs as if sizing you up when you hold out food or just throw sticks at him, as I did at the Capitol last weekend. Squirrels never look dirtier than you did after playing in the leaves, and you never notice their dung in public, unlike those chattering disease-bags that befowl our waterfronts and statues. I lured a squirrel on my porch once with Cheetos and all he left behind was a heart-warming puddle.

Some may theorize that squirrels are hellbent on world domination, as an attractive but paranoid coworker of mine did. They could very well rise up in menacing tripods and claw us into their munch-holes, but what's the worst they could really do? Perhaps a wealthy madman could train them to attack low-level municipal officials who stroll through parks without a bodyguard. You can do that for free with Tea Partiers.

There's a spritely grace in squirrels, like watching a slumber party with the Spice Girls. Until the day you come across a dead one, feet in the air, rigid as your stepfather, they seem more like the seraphs of Scripture than svelte rodents. Nietzsche may think God is dead, but I know He exists, because I see his furry spirit children playing every day. And I ain't talking about Zach Galifianakis.

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