F$cking Squirrels

Some of you are probably already aware of my "problem" with squirrels. They are obnoxious little bullies who will not hestitate to fuck you up, if given the opportunity. For example, I have no doubt that moments after this photograph was taken, that little bastard started gnawing on this poor dude's jugular, and unless quick and extreme first aid was administered, this dude is dead. Squirrels will do that sort of shit, with no hesitation, like a little rabid ninja, or a furry mafia hitman.

Now, you may be wondering why I have misgivings about squirrels, so I'll tell you.

It all started once crisp, beautiful day in the autumn of 1982. My girlfriend at the time, Pamela, and I were taking a leisurely stroll through Kettle Moraine State Park, looking for a decent clearing in which to unleash our carnal desires upon each other, when suddenly and out of nowhere, I was hit in the head with a falling walnut. Pamela and I made nothing of it - nuts fall from trees all the time.

When a second walnut hit Pamela in the head a few moments later, we did make something of it, because c'mon - two walnuts hitting two different people directly on the noggin within seconds of each other isn't just a vagary of nature.

We both looked up, and what did we see? Three red squirrels sitting together on the same tree branch, about 30 feet above us. Moments later, a falling walnut hit me directly in the eye, and soon after that, several more walnuts started raining down upon us. These three squirrels were organized, and they were purposefully dropping walnuts on us for no good reason.

These three squirrels started chattering the way squirrels will do, and soon we realized that approximately two dozen squirrels had congregated in several different trees around us, and they all started dropping nutbombs on us.

We panicked and ran, and that was when we realized just how much danger we were in...

Not only were there dozens upon dozens of squirrels perched in the trees above the path we were travelling, dropping assorted nuts on us, but now there were a dozen or more squirrels chasing us down the path, only about 30-40 feet behind us, and slowly gaining...

At some point, Pamela tripped and fell. Almost immediately, those squirrels who were chasing us were upon her, biting her all over her body. She screamed in agony, and was bleeding everywhere. I tried most valiantly to get those rotten bastards off of her, swinging at them with my walking stick and kicking at them with my hiking boots., and even trying to punch them in their evil little faces. This, had little effect, and when they finally had enough of Pamela, they turned on me.

Pamela screamed "GET OUT OF HERE! SAVE YOURSELF!"

But of course, I was a gentleman, even at the age of 16, and I wasn't going to abandon her. And so I fought those furry little assholes off of me the best I could. I killed and maimed a few, sure, but they were definitely getting the better of me, and I was getting bitten all over my body, and believe me, it was the most excruciating pain I have ever felt.

Eventually I was able to fight off enough of the evil little dickwads that I was able to pull Pamela to her feet and carry her the best I could, and as fast as I could, down the wooded path, out of the forest, and back to our car in the parking lot.

We both collapsed against the car, and looked back towards the forest, where we saw a couple dozen squirrels, stained with our blood, sitting there neatly in a row on the edge of the trees, staring at us with their crazed little eyes.

I'm pretty sure they were laughing.

This was my first adversarial encounter with squirrels, but it certainly wasn't my last.

Fucking squirrels, man.

Hotcha! Hank

Something 4 The Weekend # 85

The Kinks: Lola Versus Powerman & The Moneygoround: "Powerman" [mp3]


I still remember that sunny summer afternoon in 1995, when Geoff, the manager of Atomic Records, over on the fashionable east side of Milwaukee, pulled a handgun on me as I inspected the import CDs in the glass case/counter.

"The cash register's already yours," I said with a cracked voice, but Geoff barked back, "Who's the greatest songwriter of all time?"

"Huh?"

"Tell me who the greatest songwriter of all time is, right now, or I'm gonna empty this thing in your face."

"Jesus, Geoff, put that fucking thing away."

"I'm not joking, Hank. It's quite simple - I've got a gun to your head, and I'm asking you to name the greatest songwriter of all time. Just answer the fucking question."

I sighed heavily, and for dramatic effect...

"Alright, I'll say Mozart is the greatest songwriter of all time."

"Wrong!" Geoff screamed, "Try again."

I considered The Ramones t-shirt he was wearing. I don't think Geoff likes The Ramones. In fact, I think he wears the shirt as some sort of ironic "punk" statement. Irony sucks, and Geoff still has that gun pointed at my head. Maybe if I stall long enough, somebody's bound to come bounding through that heavier-than-fucking heavy door, and that bell is gonna ring and wake Geoff from this insanity, and either this scene is gonna come to and end with a whimper, or we're all gonna go down together in a bloody hail of bullets. Well, six bullets at most, I suppose, but then again, I have no idea what he has in his pockets. He probably has some cocaine in one of his pockets. I'm pretty sure Geoff likes cocaine. Man, managing a small but legendary indie record store must pay pretty fucking well if he can afford coke...I can't afford coke...I can't even afford these fucking Fugazi bootlegs...Who fucking charges $18 for a fucking Fugazi CD? Who fucking pays $18 for a fucking Fugazi CD? I betcha $14 of that goes straight up Geoff's nose...The Ramones...Who the fuck does he think he's fooling?

"Quit stalling, Hank...And don't give me another bullshit answer like 'Mozart'. Let's keep this in the 20th century, shall we?"

"Irving Berlin."

This answer pissed off Geoff so much that he laughed.

"You've got to be shitting me."

"Well, sorta, but maybe not...I dunno...The dude wrote thousands of songs, and dozens of 'em have become standards. White Christmas. God Bless America. Puttin' On The Ritz..."

"Well, that's only three, and the answer is wrong anyways."

"This is ridiculous, Geoff. Alright. You're favorite band is Depeche Mode, so I'll say, whatshisname...Martin Gore."

"Good answer, but that's just pandering. Martin Gore doesn't count. C'mon, one more time - Who is the greatest songwriter of all time?"

What a bullshit question, I thought to myself, or possibly out loud. Completely subjective, but Geoff expects some sort of absolute truth. Greatest songwriter of all time? Lennon and McCarthy? Jagger and Richards? Bob Dylan? Tom Waits? That guy from Abba? Elvis Costello? Robyn Hitchcock? The boys from REM? Paul Westerberg?

"Me and the gun are waiting, Hank."

Finally, I blurted out "Ray Davies."

"Ray Davies?"

"Yes, Ray Davies."

Geoff stood there motionless, staring at the wall of show flyers behind me, for what seemed like an eternity but probably just fourteen seconds. On that sunny summer afternoon I couldn't fucking believe that I was the only hipster doofus on the fashionable east side of Milwaukee that just wanted to flip through NEW RELEASES and talk trash with whichever hipster doofus was working the counter that afternoon, which just happened to be store manager Geoff that day, who still had that fucking gun pointed straight at my noodle.

"Ray Davies, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Meh, good enough for me."


Hotcha! Hank