Return Of The Squirrels: Backstory

The squirrels are back!

You may not know the saga that is The Attack Of The Lesbian Squirrels but you’re about to find out. This is the backstory I always knew but never shared.

There’s nothing quite so fine as kicking back for a good yarn so you might want to read it all. Pour yourself a drink, excuse yourself from Holiday obligations, head over to their page, and enjoy.

Be warned, every part of the story is as true as anything else on the internet and it’s as non-PC as none of it. Animals were harmed in the making of this story. Egos are tweaked, sacred cows are barbecued, and snowflakes are triggered on every page. Once you read it, you’ll never think of Swedish disco in the same way.

If you feel like tipping or subscribing I’d be happy to have the scratch, but don’t sweat it if you’re too broke to contribute. We’ve all been there. Everyone is welcome to read as much as they want. Merry Christmas.

It had been a long winter. Now it was finally over. The Curmudgeon, a scruffy homesteader, anti-social grump, and all-around wise ass, had spent the last several months trapped indoors. Unlike his faithful dog, he was not well trained for the house. While the dog snored peacefully by the woodstove, the Curmudgeon wound up ranting about “the infernal muses of cabin fever”. The Curmudgeon’s wife was used to this. So long as he didn’t go full “The Shining”, it was just another year.

During his time of forced inaction, the Curmudgeon entertained ideas. He’d formulated plans, built castles in the sky, and constructed mental edifices. Unlike the average man, he intended to make into reality that which he’d imagined. Or at least he would try. He was the kind of fellow who would knock down a wall and later assess whether it was loadbearing.

He burst out of his workshop and strode toward the old shed. The old shed had spent the winter buried behind drifted snow; safe from the Curmudgeon’s energies. It had seen better days. The roof leaked, the door was askew, one of the windows was broken, and the paint was more ceremonial than functional. The shed had electricity, of a sort. It was ungrounded, poorly insulated, and as likely to electrocute you as power a bulb. The entire structure was as faded and unreliable as a politician’s promise. None of that mattered to the Curmudgeon. He had a wrecking bar in one hand and a hammer the other, with which he was going to build the mother of all HAM radio shacks.

He’d already struck a deal on a pile of rusty metal purporting to be an antenna tower. From this lofty perch, the Curmudgeon would probe the aether and broadcast forth… what exactly? What the Curmudgeon had to say to the universe was never clear. He had a vision. There could be no doubt about that. But nobody save the Curmudgeon seemed to understand what it was.

The door wouldn’t budge on its hinges. It soon yielded to persuasion (in the form of a hammer). He removed the (now broken) door only to come to the awful realization that skunks had been there. The enclosed space didn’t so much stink as it encapsulated an ambient density of revulsion.

“Whoa!” The Curmudgeon yelped as he stumbled back. There was no way anyone could do anything with the shed until the air was cleared. This was less a matter of scented candles than an exorcism.

Prowling the perimeter, he saw a flash of movement. The skunks were still present!

The Curmudgeon drew his pistol. (He always open carried on his own land. This never failed to freak out UPS man and may have been the point.) He waited. A skunk, cowering under the wooden foundation, waited too. He thought he saw a paw. He was a pretty good shot. Would a skunk spray if it suddenly lost a foot?

He saw more movement off to the side. A baby skunk, the size and cuteness of a kitten coupled with the stench of a sewer in Calcutta. There were two of them. Maybe more.

The Curmudgeon holstered his pistol and left. It was better to drive the skunks out that start shooting willy nilly. The last thing he needed was for one to die under the structure and spend all summer rotting there.

Back at his house, the Curmudgeon weighed his options. His one-man brain storming session encompassed all things from gentle negotiation to packing the building with enough explosives to vaporize it. He settled on an audio attack. It was an ideal solution, a non-lethal method to encourage the skunks to vamoose on their own. The Curmudgeon didn’t relish the thought of shooting baby skunks. “The little bastards are just too cute.” He muttered to himself.

Half an hour later he’d returned with a massive and decrepit portable radio. It belonged more on a 1970’s nostalgia E-bay site than anyone’s practical use. It was a true boom box; relic from a time of Soviet / American brinkmanship and carbureted vehicles. It had less technology than the light switch in a modern office but it was loud. Very loud.

The Curmudgeon, holding his breath, gingerly plugged the old beast into a dangling wall outlet. He was pleased (and mildly surprised) that the outlet was both powered and didn’t shock him. Then he turned the radio on. There was a deafening roar of static. Despite the terrible stench, he spent his time turning up and down the FM dial. He wanted just the right sort of sound. Something that would drive anyone away. A sound so harsh and grating no being could withstand it for long. When he found the right station, it came in crystal clear. He nodded to himself and withdrew.

The old boom box lived up to its former glories. It blasted the station so loudly that any creature in the structure would surely be miserable.

The Curmudgeon stood back some 50 yards and surveyed his work. He’d done well. Nothing could put up with that audio assault for long. It was simply intolerable. He almost felt guilt for his choice of station; he could have turned it to heavy metal (one of his favorites) or a local farmer’s channel that featured banjos more than should be allowed in a civilized society, but he’d done so much worse.

Back in the shed, a deafeningly loud voice introduced the next show.

“Hello, I’m Terry Gross and this is Fresh Air…”

. . .

He left the radio on 24/7 for a full month. National Public Radio did its part. It never wavered for a second in producing a steady flow of bourgeoise whining, environmental cajoling, generalized complaining, political projection, desperate propaganda, smug elitism, and just enough saccharine sweetness to make everything that much more unpalatable.

Surely no living thing would be left in the shed. The Curmudgeon approached warily, concerned that he might get sprayed by a skunk but already distracted by what sounded like the tail end of a 13-part discussion on the ethical merits of gluten free recycling. This was to be followed at the top of the hour by an in-depth analysis of geopolitical maneuverings in South America as explained by a lesbian poet and three sculptors who lived in a loft in downtown Seattle. The Curmudgeon checked his watch. He definitely wanted to un-ass the area before some poet started explaining diplomacy! He moved a little faster.

It was all for naught. Even before he got to the door, he smelled the whiff of skunk. Damn! Meanwhile the radio was still blaring. “Join me tonight for a conversation about life among the deplorables. Jennifer, a dyslexic one-armed weaver and her life partner Karen, an activist and community organizer will discuss what kind of help we can offer the last few liberals trapped behind enemy lines…”

The Curmudgeon fell back a solid 100 yards, more to avoid the audio than the stink. He began clearing leaves off an old picnic table. Plan A had failed. God knew how those poor creatures had persisted through a pledge drive but they’d refused to flee so he’d just have to start shooting. If Terry Gross couldn’t drive them out, nothing would. He uncased a small caliber rifle and set about adjusting the bipod. Baby skunks are unreasonably cute but this was his land and they were squatters. Cute or not, they were going to die.

What the Curmudgeon couldn’t have heard over the din was the scrabbling of two squirrels in the shed’s attic. There’s simply no way he could have known of their presence.

Focusing with a Zen-like patience known to most hunters and a few monks, he waited. Eventually, a skunk emerged from the hole. He scored a direct hit. It was important that no wounded animal return to die under the structure so he’d focused carefully on bullet placement. Only after he fired a perfect shot did he wince as the world’s cutest baby skunk fell dead.

Suddenly, two squirrels swished out of the building and pelted across the field. The Curmudgeon swung on them and drew a bead, but he didn’t fire. Squirrels weren’t his purpose that day; only skunks.

As he watched their tails flash out of sight, he wondered what they’d thought of the radio. He shrugged. Probably it meant nothing to them. And even if they were driven bonkers by a 13-part series on the moral superiority of recycling… what’s the worst that could happen?