Attack Of The Lesbian Activist Squirrels: Beer Football

Here’s the most recent installment of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. A designated page with the full story puts the pieces in order.

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Finally, 2020 is a time of mass hysteria so here’s a trigger warning: Anyone who clicks on a story with a ridiculous title like Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels knows what they’re getting. If it’s too much for your delicate sensibilities, stay in your bubble and leave us adults alone. 

“It’s mink. Made it myself. Wanna’ touch it?” Chigger Johnson was completely naked, except for a furry Speedo; which he’d apparently made by hand. He was three sheets to the wind; having consumed inhuman quantities of Bush Lite and half of a Mason Jar’s worth of something so nasty Earl could barely tolerate a sniff, much less a swig.

Earl politely declined but it was no good. Chigger insisted he examine the stitching on a fur triangle that barely covered his ass. Earl had to admit, the stitching was excellent; but nobody wants to have a woodsman’s ass shoved in his face.

Roxanne, kind woman that she was, saved Earl. “Chigger! You get your ass out of that fella’s face!”

Chigger relented. Nobody truly controlled the mighty hunter (including Chigger himself), but Roxanne had him somewhere between housebroken and mostly tamed. “Your loss.” He chuckled.

Looking for another outlet for his energies, he pivoted with remarkable dexterity, leaped across Earl, and swooped up an unattended beer can he’d spied. The beer turned out to belong to a camo clad trucker who answered to the name of “Spudballs”. (By now Earl had learned that everyone in the group had a nickname and Edgar H was about the least suggestive nickname available.) Spudballs and Chigger began wrestling over who owned the beer and the entire trailer swayed as they crashed into the wall. Most of the men, sensing a chance for good hearted mayhem, joined in. Spudballs was dogpiled by Limp Willie, Grover, and Grover’s son Spackle. Meanwhile Chigger was clotheslined by Sparky and his brother Eelpout who dragged him away from the contentious beer can. The crowd started chanting “Beer football! Beer football!” Someone complained that the teams were uneven so BeckyBat, a rarity in that she was the only woman willing to join the mess, lined up with Chigger’s side. Earl was briefly worried for BeckyBat but then shrugged. She had a physique and attitude that would scare a rhino and clearly had played this game before.

Earl shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Something was poking him. He rummaged around and found a loaded Bearcat revolver wedged between the sofa seat and his butt. “Thanks. I’ve been looking for that.” Smiled Roxanne (apparently the only exception to the nickname tradition). She took the pistol from Earl’s hand and haphazardly chucked it into a cardboard box near the wall. Earl craned his neck and saw the box was filled with a pile of guns. Not a stack. Not a carefully arranged storage bench. Just a flat out pile of loaded firearms. Earl put more effort into stacking the cereal boxes in his pantry than the residents of this trailer did for armaments.

“The first one to get the can through the opposite wall wins.” Roxanne explained.

The tiny trailer was packed. There were four people on each side of the can, lined up less like football players than demolition cars. Well over a dozen spectators gathered to watch what was certain to be a complete disaster. Through a cracked window, Earl noted there was a fire on the lawn. The fire had wheels and it was driving around. Someone had decided to light a truck on fire and drive it in circles. The horse stood by contentedly munching on grass, as if this was a normal thing. Earl tried to count how many people were open carrying and how many were probably equally armed but politely stuffing their gear out of sight. Someone on Spudballs’ side had fired up a chainsaw and was angling to cut a hole in the wall to increase their team’s odds while Chigger and company used a snowshovel to push the chainsaw back. Roxanne cheered them on, oblivious to the almost certainty that either a person or her trailer was about to get gutted.

Edgar began composing this week’s BATFE report in his head. “Do. Not. Mess. With. These. People.”