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June 10, 2005

Volume 2, Issue 10

Today's topic comes straight from the inimitable Sugar Bush Squirrel:

(Click for full size)

Have at it.

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Comments

Allright what you need to do is send half your meen to left. When they get into position you make a feint to the right to draw his fire and then the men on the left cut him to ribbons.

Against a squirrel?! I will just go over there and twist his head off.

No! Are you blind? He is a killer, look at his claws man. Seventythree men have been slaughtered by this maniac. He is a killer!

Right, Rocky go take care of that rodent!

Oh God No! ROCKY!!! You bastard!

Let's see how you take an airstrike.

Posted by: Blaine at June 10, 2005 5:49 AM · Permalink

I used to dream in gigantic metaphors, usually waves huge beyond belief crashing against cities, or my house or against me. Grey-green curls of foaming anger towering higher than the highest building dashing apart my subconscious world. Or more concrete dreams might include a visit from a raven-haired succubus, with round breasts and silky thighs to inhabit my dreams.

Usually the dreams came in predictable cycles that correlated with my real life. Meeting a girl. Raven haired silky thigh dream. Breakup. Crashing waves destroying my world dream.

Now with age and decline I dream of bridal squirrels; with guns.

Posted by: joe at June 10, 2005 6:05 AM · Permalink

"It is adorable," said Hasim.

"Since the death of our previous mascot, we have been asking ourselves: what animal, other than the camel, brings 'mujahedeen' to mind?"

"The sight of this rodent brings Caddyshack to mind," said Malik.

"Yes, but that was not a squirrel. And we feel that the turban, fatigues and Kalashnikov lend a certain menace."

"Menace? I see only cuteness."

"Hasim, please. The squirrel is the master of cunning. He's fearless, he succeeds despite all obstacles. What better symbol of mujahedeen doggedness and wit?"

Hasim stepped out of the tent and mourned the death of an idea.

Posted by: G-Do at June 10, 2005 6:53 AM · Permalink

The world looks different when you have eyes on the side of your head.

That was the first thing I noticed. That, and my craving acorns.

The last thing I remember about my old life was the ground coming up at us. Fast. Those damned passengers – why couldn’t they have just accepted the inevitable? Instead, it’s “Let’s roll” and we end up in a Pennsylvania field. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

I really thought there would be seventy-two virgins waiting for me. Yeah, sure: all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Guess the Hindus were on the right track after all.

Posted by: Elisson at June 10, 2005 7:33 AM · Permalink

How different would it all be, I wondered, if the millions of years of evolution had taken a different turn?

Say that first amphibian crawled out of the primordial slime in the spring, instead of the winter. Each development becoming imprinted upon chromosomes that, at the time, were more like chalkboards than maps.

Another species could become dominant. Different synapses and neurons connecting, making certain brain types stronger than others.

Who knows how it could have turned out? Should the rodents stand atop the animal kingdom, surely the squirrels would lead them.

But what kind of leaders would they be?

Posted by: Mr.Parx at June 10, 2005 7:44 AM · Permalink

Elisson - twisted minds think alike.

Posted by: Laurence Simon at June 10, 2005 7:47 AM · Permalink

Karen’s life as a young adult was a lesson in frustration. “Find your talents,” everyone said. “Then you’ll be happy.” Karen skipped from job to job like a flat stone on a smooth lake.

She tried every profession she could find – still looking for her talents and interests. By the time she was in her forties, Karen had done everything from accounting to zookeeper. All of these careers had something to offer, but not for her.

It wasn’t until she found a way to combine her loves for photography, taxidermy and making doll clothes that her life really came together.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 10, 2005 7:51 AM · Permalink

It looked like today’s outfit would involve holding a gun like the soldiers in the fading pictures on the wall, which all included a younger, scantily clad version of Old Woman.

Old Woman’s fingers poked and prodded. The sound system hidden among the wicker furniture pounded out an unrelenting mix of steel guitar, banjos, and Old Woman’s own warbling voice, the voice that seemed to burrow its way directly to the center of his brain and burst vessels there. Ah, life in Boca Raton.

Palm fronds brushed the window, forever out of reach. He wished he could smoke, at least.

Posted by: Hubris at June 10, 2005 8:00 AM · Permalink

“It goes like this,” the young man excitedly spread his sketches across the conference table. “The hero in the cartoon is a squirrel. But not just any squirrel. He’s a squirrel with a gun and a barrister’s wig! I call him Judge Bushy-Tail.”

A couple of the producers dutifully looked at the sketches. The others sat in arms-crossed silence.

Sweat beaded on the young man’s forehead. “But he has these itty-bitty bullets so every mission hopelessly fails!”

“I’m not sure, Walt,” the head producer said. “How about you do another one of those cartoons with the mouse on the steamboat?”

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 10, 2005 8:07 AM · Permalink

Ha Ha, funnyman.

How hot is it?
I saw a squirrel using an oven mitt to hold his nuts.
How windy is it?
I saw a squirrel lashing down his nuts.
How dry is it?
I saw a squirrel rubbing moisturizer on his nuts.
How tight is security?
I saw a squirrel X-raying his nuts.

How about I come on your show and throw down my top ten hollow point rounds into your ass?

Then I'll dump your body in the Will it Float tank and bend the grinder girl over and bust a nut.

How 'bout dem nuts, buddy?

Posted by: skinbad at June 10, 2005 8:38 AM · Permalink

Don't believe the hype. Hal's still a jerk, always was. I mean, the guy goes around chasing alien jailbait, then thinks it's okay if she magically ages her body a few years?

And when it's time for the big comeback, he brings back his buddies, but does he remember me, or Salakk (sniff)? We carried him for years, and what thanks do we get?

Sure, he's got the Most Powerful Weapon In The Universe (tm). But the moron takes it off whenever he goes flying. I'm small enough to hide onboard. I'm his worst nightmare: a squirrel with a gun.

Posted by: Jeff R. at June 10, 2005 8:49 AM · Permalink

Jack stepped out of the black Suburban and looked at his watch. In the last sixteen hours he had been beaten, stabbed and shot. And all he had to show for it was one faded photograph of the suspect.

And a possible location. Griffith Park – just north of Hollywood. Jack ran to the nearest tree with his pistol drawn.

High above, a helicopter circled, its occupants watching. “Looks like we need to bring Bauer in again,” the man in the suit and brown shoes said. “He’s finally lost it.”

The man in the white coat nodded and prepared the syringe.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 10, 2005 9:06 AM · Permalink

She had been the proper fine arts student at a small Northern CA university, specializing in installations exposing institutionalized sexism and patriarchal defense techniques. This was the first project she’d ever done outside her usual realm.

As political art goes it was quite tame -- mild ridicule wrapped in kitschy cuteness. A muhjadeen squirrel. The stir it had caused had only been on campus.

She assumed.

Her assigned lawyer was at her cell door, “The ICC has ruled you are to be turned over to a Islamic Court,”

How sad he is! she thought.

“If only you hadn’t vacationed in France.”

Posted by: Darleen at June 10, 2005 9:08 AM · Permalink

There is a tunnel that opens in downtown San Francisco, and, an hour's walk later, comes out just outside Venice. It is not the only way to travel quickly, but a safe and secret one.

The way is not without risk or cost, though. Once, King Suleiman ibn Daub cursed the city of Nineveh, transforming all within into rodents. A week later, he relented, but some of those cursed found their new forms useful, and fled the city before the curse was lifted. They dwell in between-places such as these, and if we meet them they will extract a toll.

Posted by: Jeff R. at June 10, 2005 9:25 AM · Permalink

Hakim took a break from updating their web page, www.jihadagainstamerica.com, and surfed the internet for a few minutes.

"Akhbar, look!"

Akhbar saw the image on Hakim's laptop and went into a blind rage. "Sacrilege!" he roared, pulling his beard. "Such a picture is blasphemy!"

"By Allah, heads will roll for this," Hakim agreed, fingering the razor edge of his scimitar. "To make such sport of our jihad... we must avenge this travesty. Blood will run in the streets." He scrolled up the page. "There... Boca Raton... The imam will issue a fatwa."

There were riots in Pakistan. Fourteen people died.

Posted by: hnumpah at June 10, 2005 9:26 AM · Permalink

It wasn’t his fault. All he’d wanted was a few nuts. That’s it. But that damn sheriff kept pushing. He. Just. Kept. Pushing. And now, another squirrel was dead.

He’d been a hero over there. At least to his men. But when he returned home, he was spat upon, called a killer… They just didn’t understand. He didn’t want to be like this.

His C.O.’s shrill voice interrupted his thoughts, echoing through the dense woods.

“It's over, Johnny. It's over!”

”Nothing is over! Nothing!” John squeaked, strapping on another clip.

“They drew first blood, not me! They drew first blood…”

Posted by: copygodd at June 10, 2005 9:36 AM · Permalink

Dateline Central Park- Stunning new photographic evidence has emerged of the Squirrel Jihad, a shadowy group believed by most to be nothing more than legend. Eminent rodentologist Dr. Hans Ophamaratt reports to have contacted the leader of the group. Talks to this point, however, have not been effective. Says Dr. Ophamaratt, "the squirrel said only 'ticka-ticka-ticka'." National security experts believe this obscure phrasing may be a signal to sleeper cells around the world, launching the squirrel population into a frenzy of bloodletting and nut-gathering, and ushering in a new Age of Rodentia. I, for one, welcome our new squirrel overlords…

Posted by: No One of Consequence at June 10, 2005 10:40 AM · Permalink

"Chief? This is Agent 000."

"Secret! Where are you? Where have you been?"

"That's none of your business," he snarled. "I no longer answer to puppets of the western devils."

"What are you talking about?" the Chief asked? "Where's Morocco?

"That's Ibrahim X to you!" he replied angrily. "The mole formly known as Morocco has opened my eyes to the evil ways of the West. We have both renounced our former ties. I am hanging up my hat. We are now going to spend our lives fighting for Islam. Tell Atom Ant goodbye."

Secret Squirrel had just gone rogue agent.

Posted by: Gahrie at June 10, 2005 10:02 PM · Permalink

He was a grizzled veteran of many campaigns, and as the young squirrels gathered around, he spat tobacco on the ground.

A small dust cloud stirred behind him.

“Just listen to me, and you'll get through all this.”

That admonition failed to change the wide-eyed faces of his young audience. Many of them hadn't even begun to live yet. Never went to college, never made love, never knew love.

His empty eyes met the still-warm eyes of a young private. The private could only hear one sentence, echoing through his head, over and over and over again:

LIVE THROUGH THIS.

Posted by: j.d. at June 10, 2005 10:07 PM · Permalink