Dear Raccoon That Lives in Our Attic,
For about a year now I've looked the other way and let you happily reside in the upper story of our house. After all, I'd rather eat paste than go up in the attic anyway since the only way to get there is to climb a handmade "ladder" precariously nailed to the wall next to the stairway leading to the basement. To the eight year-old who made that contraption sometime in the 1930's: I salute you. It's still there, leading to a ragged hole in the ceiling and begging to be climbed so it can disintegrate into dust as soon as some poor and soon-to-be-injured bastard is foolish enough to step on to it.
When you first moved in and I heard faint scratching noises coming from somewhere in the house when I was the only one home, I tried hard not to totally lose my shit. Had my home been infiltrated by some malevolent otherworldy presence? Was I was being tormented by a demon from hell as payback for all the bad things I had said about Dick Cheney? I coped in the most sensible, well-planned manner I could: I adopted the ostrich approach, turning off all the lights, sitting on the sofa, and covering myself with a blanket. I realize of course that no being -- supernatural or otherwise -- would have been fooled by this maneuver, because everyone knows that the first thing they teach you in demon school is to look for a giant blanket-covered whimpering lump.
When you came up on the deck one night, sat at my feet, and looked at me all, "You gonna help a brother out and make me a sandwich?" I did my best to remain calm, even though I was certain you were a rabid beast hell-bent on my total and very messy destruction. I went inside, left you to your raccoony devices, and watched you scramble up to the roof so you could go home, fix yourself a cocktail, stretch out on your Barcalounger, and check out the latest episode of Montel. I'm a lover, not a fighter.
It's when you start hopping around at 4am practicing your favorite Backstreet Boys dance moves that I have to put my foot down. Do that shit after dinner like I do. When I get woken up prematurely because you're feeling punchy and in the mood to scamper you're taking your life in your paws. Mama isn't a very nice person in the morning, and no matter what kind of sweet raccoon-fu moves you can lay down, when you hear some skeezer with a terrible case of bedhead pound the wall and yell words that start with "f" and end with "ucker," you should stop the dancing and lay low for a while. If you don't, you'll be practicing your hitch kicks with the squirrels in the backyard. And those bitches have no rhythm at all.
For about a year now I've looked the other way and let you happily reside in the upper story of our house. After all, I'd rather eat paste than go up in the attic anyway since the only way to get there is to climb a handmade "ladder" precariously nailed to the wall next to the stairway leading to the basement. To the eight year-old who made that contraption sometime in the 1930's: I salute you. It's still there, leading to a ragged hole in the ceiling and begging to be climbed so it can disintegrate into dust as soon as some poor and soon-to-be-injured bastard is foolish enough to step on to it.
When you first moved in and I heard faint scratching noises coming from somewhere in the house when I was the only one home, I tried hard not to totally lose my shit. Had my home been infiltrated by some malevolent otherworldy presence? Was I was being tormented by a demon from hell as payback for all the bad things I had said about Dick Cheney? I coped in the most sensible, well-planned manner I could: I adopted the ostrich approach, turning off all the lights, sitting on the sofa, and covering myself with a blanket. I realize of course that no being -- supernatural or otherwise -- would have been fooled by this maneuver, because everyone knows that the first thing they teach you in demon school is to look for a giant blanket-covered whimpering lump.
When you came up on the deck one night, sat at my feet, and looked at me all, "You gonna help a brother out and make me a sandwich?" I did my best to remain calm, even though I was certain you were a rabid beast hell-bent on my total and very messy destruction. I went inside, left you to your raccoony devices, and watched you scramble up to the roof so you could go home, fix yourself a cocktail, stretch out on your Barcalounger, and check out the latest episode of Montel. I'm a lover, not a fighter.
It's when you start hopping around at 4am practicing your favorite Backstreet Boys dance moves that I have to put my foot down. Do that shit after dinner like I do. When I get woken up prematurely because you're feeling punchy and in the mood to scamper you're taking your life in your paws. Mama isn't a very nice person in the morning, and no matter what kind of sweet raccoon-fu moves you can lay down, when you hear some skeezer with a terrible case of bedhead pound the wall and yell words that start with "f" and end with "ucker," you should stop the dancing and lay low for a while. If you don't, you'll be practicing your hitch kicks with the squirrels in the backyard. And those bitches have no rhythm at all.
2 Comments:
That was one of the funniest posts I've read in a long time. Hell of a job!
Well thanks, b-dub!
That post was brought to you courtesy of vodka. I have to give credit where credit is due.
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