squirrelking.com

Man from Nantucket?
No, he’s in a limmerick
This is a haiku

I was driving Mr. and Mrs. Marmaduke Mackintosh-McCampbell back from Dufftown, where they had taken the morning tour of Balvenie Distillery. As I came over the hill and down along the Loch-side, I saw a sort of boiling in the water. I carried on a wee bit, and when I looked again, there was a huge grayish-brownish hump — like a great oak whisky cask — floating half above the waterline. It was huge and shiny and brownish and . . . humpy.

“Sweet Jesu” I said, “Do you see that?”

Mrs. Mackintosh-McCampbell, who is a pathological liar and a drunk, said, “Aye, I see it clear as day, and I’ve not been in a bar yet this morning!”

“It’s Nessy,” I said. “I swear on the Stone of Scone, it’s Nessy!”

“Ach, it’s an eel! It’s an eel!” said Mr. Mackintosh-McCampbell.

“There’s no eels that big,” I said.

”Ach, it’s otters!” he said.

“There’s no otters that big,” I said.

“Ach, it’s Shaquille O’Neal!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Mackintosh-McCampbell said. “Honestly, Pumpkin, why on earth would an Irishman be swimming in a Scottish Loch?”

Mr. Mackintosh-McCampbell did not reply. He leaned toward the wee wifey and gave her a good loud sniff. “She is full-bodied sweetness,” he said, “with light spicy notes and a hint of sherry fruitiness.”

“Attention, passengers” I said, “Monster on the starboard bow!”

Mrs. Mackintosh-McCampbell giggled. “Oh, Marmaduke,” she said. “Your finish is long and pleasingly rich.”

“Hello,” I said. “Earth to back seat. Come in, please.”

Just my luck. The Loch Ness monster is doing the backstroke right beside my car, and the only corroborating witnesses are the two drunk octogenarians making out in my back seat.

I’m upgrading the blog today. If it disappears, don’t panic. That’s my job. More later.

When it comes right down to it, the pizza crust is just an edible utensil. It’s the thing that carries the food to the mouth. So, why not load up that doughy spoon with something more daring than cheese and pepperoni? Why not make a crawfish etoufee pizza, for example, or a peanut butter and jelly pizza, or a Manhattan clam chowder pizza?

Here’s a great summertime pizza idea: roll pizza dough into the shape of a cone, throw it in the oven for a while, and then load it up with frozen creamy fruit-food. We could call this an “ice cream cone.”

After reading the horoscopes in The Star this morning, I decided to move my birthday from November to January. I have two reasons for doing this:

1. Two birthdays in the transition year means double presents.

2. The move is a zodiac upgrade. Why should I settle for being a moody loner, when I could be an “intractable, contrary, and emotionally detached” moody loner?

Lame haiku about dangerous thugs dressed in Santa costumes:

Bad Santa posse —
Red and white and black and blue.
These guys just sleigh me!

Friends, Rodents, Countrymen,

Today, with gin and tonic season in full bloom, with more sweaty Americans sitting in the punch bowl than ever before, with the naughty girls safely stowed under School Marm’s desk — the state of our blog is hot, humid and hung-over. (Applause.)

Since our last State of the Blog Address, we have talked much and accomplished little. It was a team effort. (Rah, rah, rah!) As a team we have embraced the true spirit of laziness. So let us not waste time talking about the things we haven’t accomplished. Let us take the lazier way and waste time talking about the things we’ve already wasted time talking about. (Warning, rehash section to follow.)

We spent the better part of a week discussing my sister’s unfortunate bundt cake fetish. We carefully measured the amount of torque (in gin and tonics per hour) required to make Rosalind® spin “like the flying twister bed in Wizard of Oz.” We established an S&M golf tournament called “The Masters” for the sole purpose of foisting my coveted red valet-parking jackets on unsuspecting and submissive golfers. We learned that School Marm went to school with Fernando Lama, who may or may not have worn Tony Lama antique brown full-quill ostrich boots. We coined the phrase “going Tony,” which either means getting naked or attaching two Yorkshire Terriers to one’s nether regions. (I prefer the former.) We founded the Church of Skortsporkology. And, after vigorous debate, we concluded that Rhode Island Red is a chicken’s favorite color.

There were personal milestones, too.

In the first six months of 2005, Rosalind® collected 567 Big City parking tickets. She became afraid of parking situations, but she never avoided them — not even when Auntie Lulu asked her to run out for Jell-O at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. After the traumatic Jell-O incident, Rosalind struggled to restore her inner balance. She tried putting hot rocks on her back, sniffing beer (and other aromatic libations), and standing on her roof during an electrical storm with a wire hanger in each hand. I don’t know which thing worked, but something certainly did, because a direct lightening strike failed to knock little Rosalind® off of her crumbling Victorian home’s rooftop. It did, however, cause the image of Sainte Plaster du Paris to miraculously appear on her bedroom ceiling.

Sadly, School Marm did not meet a good man at the Stop and Shop deli counter, but she did meet a kosher dill pickle, a cucumber (sprinkled with salt), and a foot-long chicken dog. Kudos to Marm for helping me remove the curse from my unlucky (and possibly evil) socks with that Hocus Pocus Dominocus stuff. Never forget the Dominocus, my friends. The Dominocus is the most important part of the sock spell. School Marm also worked tirelessly to keep the naughty girls under control and under her desk. Fortunately for every good boy who loves bad girls, she was not able to do either.

In the first and second quarters of this fiscal year, Chipmunky delivered several rousing pep talks, reminding us always to keep our backs straight and our tails fluffed. For this, I promoted Chippy to the largely ceremonial Minister of Morale position. It is comforting to know that whenever my spirits sag, Chippy will step up and say something like, “Brilliant diddly, O Masterful One,” or “Wave that bushy tail in defiance, Sire.” Please, everyone give it up for the Munkey. (Applause.) It is also worth noting that on at least one occasion Chippy ate a roasted turkey bagel sandwich with lettuce, tomato, onion, provolone and light swipe malaise.

Dr. Scott Spotman, our new Science Editor, has spent much of his time at BlogCo searching for the stripper with the lazy eye. He has also helped us with our gin and tonic torque calculations, and when he wasn’t busy shooting various wavelengths of light into carpet stains, Dr. Scott told us the best (and only) electron joke any of us have ever heard. Let’s hear it for Dr. Scott’s electrons! (Applause.)

As I prepare this address, McSwing remains enigmatic. We know only that McSwing knows Poetry Hall of Famer and sports prognosticator, Larry the Argyle Accountant. I say, any friend of the Argyle Accountant is a friend of mine.

That brings us to the naughty girls. What can I say about the naughties? Even though they are at least partially imaginary, their naughtiness is real and irrepressible. The naughties (especially Johanna) are an inspiration to us all, especially me. Now give me my pencil, you wicked thing.

What about me? What have I done since the last State of the Blog Address? Well, after much soul searching, I finally went public with my nearly heroic rescue of the grouchy man in the cigar-smoke-filled Cadillac. Although I most certainly saved this fellow from a minor door ding, I do not consider myself a hero. (Book deal in the works.) I also began work on a triple-X adult version of Mary Poppins. One song has already been published to the blog. Two others are in the can but may be too dirty for publication.

We have had less frequent visitors, too, and I hope they will play greater roles in BlogCo’s future. DJ Spoz left three funny messages where no one would find them, and my very tall neighbor 2Sides visited but left when I began to make her itch. Don’t let me forget to mention Julie Spotman and my fake cousin Bonnie Burton, who invented the internet. Finally, I would like to encourage all of the invisible visitors to consider visibility at this time. That means you, Cornfed. We talk for days on end about stains and squirrels and hangovers, for crissakes. We need your help.

I’d like to close with something truly inspirational, but since I can’t think of anything inspirational, I’ll just close.

Thank you America, and good night. (Applause.)

Recently, I found the following note taped to my office door.

Dear Mr. Squirrel,

What happens to our brains when we get hangovers?

Signed, the naughty girls

That’s a very good question, naughty girls. I’m glad you asked.

During the digestion process, your fine female bodies break alcohol down into its most basic components: vinegar and baking soda. Now try to remember that papier mache volcano you made for the science fair last week. If each of your skulls were a little pigtailed volcano, then your alcohol-soaked brains would be the lava burbling just below the papier mache surface.

Here’s the tricky part.

When vinegar (an acid) reacts with baking soda (a base), carbon dioxide bubbles form. These bubbles float all the way up to the top of the head, causing the brain to blow up like an angry bouncer. The swelling pushes the outside of the brain against the inside of the headbone, which causes the pigtails to tighten, which causes one heck of a headache.

I hope this answers your question, naughty girls, and I hope you will think twice before opening another case of School Marm’s Strawberry Hill Wine.

I’m thinking about picking up the guitar again.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’ve tried and failed several times before, so why do I think this time will be different? This time will be different because this time I will be learning to play the guitar WHILE channeling the ghosts of dead rock stars. My first teacher will be Phil Lynott, a dead guy who used to be almost alive enough to lead the 80s rock band Thin Lizzy. With the help of Phil’s ghost, I will learn to play “The Boys Are Back in Town” and all the other famous Thin Lizzy songs. Off the top of my head, I can’t think of any other famous Thin Lizzy songs, but dammit that’s Phil’s job.

Okay, I admit it, Phil wasn’t my first choice. I would have preferred to channel the ghost of former Sex Pistol John Lydon, but miraculously and inconveniently, Mr. Lydon is not yet dead. He isn’t a guitarist either, but who cares? Even the Sex Pistol’s guitarist isn’t a guitarist and the tunes still sound good to me. So sod off, you wankers . . . or something like that.

Now who is ready learn some scales?!

Dear Abby,

I have a pair of evil socks. Whenever I wear them, something bad happens. The evil socks were a gift from a friend, so I feel obligated to wear them even though they will surely bring bad juju.

Please advise.

Mr. Squirrel,
Oak Tree, Connecticut

Squirrel diddle diddle diddle Squirrel diddle ay
Squirrel diddle diddle diddle Squirrel diddle ay

Squirrelpercalifragilistisexpialidocious!
Even though the squirrel is tame
it can be quite ferocious
When it has a beer or two
it’s conduct is atrocious
Squirrelpercalifragilistisexpialidocious!

Squirrel diddle diddle diddle Squirrel diddle ay
Squirrel diddle diddle diddle Squirrel diddle ay

Because I was afraid to spank
When I was just a pup
A lady gave my crank a yank
And made my crank stand up
My crank stood up and I sat down
and sang this happy song
which uses adjectives and nouns
to describe my schlong:

Squirrelpercalifragilistisexpialidocious!
Even though the squirrel is tame
it can be quite ferocious
When it has a beer or two
it’s conduct is atrocious
Squirrelpercalifragilistisexpialidocious!

Squirrel diddle diddle diddle Squirrel diddle ay
Squirrel diddle diddle diddle Squirrel diddle ay

Here’s a story about the grouchy old guy who used to run the grill in the Mardi Gras parking lot.

One day, as I was walking through the Mardi Gras parking lot, someone honked their car horn and nearly scared me out of my shorts. I looked to my left and looked to my right but didn’t see anything unusual.

I started walking again, and again the horn honked.

Turns out, the honking was coming from a big black Cadillac, which was wedged into the narrowest of parking spaces. It was surrounded on three sides — by the grill in front, by a brick wall on the right, and by a long wooden sawhorse on the left. There was about six inches of clearance all around. Only the rear end of the car was free of obstacles. I stopped to take a closer look and noticed that the grouchy old guy who ran the grill was waving frantically at me from inside the Caddy. The car appeared to be filling with smoke.

“That guy must be in trouble,” I said to myself. “Better see if I can help.”

I stepped up to the driver’s side door, and Grouchy Grill Guy rolled down the window. Two fingers and a stogie pointed toward the sawhorse. “Hey, buddy,” he said, “could you move that thing? I can’t open my car door.”

The sawhorse was so old and rickety it could barely stand on it’s own four feet. Grouchy Grill Guy could have blown it over with cigar smoke. “Wow,” I said. “Good thing I came along when I did. You might have starved in there.” He was a rather portly grouchy guy, so as an afterthought I added, “Of course, it would taken a while.”

I don’t know why Grouchy Grill Guy drove straight into that parking trap, or why he didn’t roll down his window and blow over the rickety sawhorse, but I DO know that I saved his grouchy behind from certain boredom and a possible ding in his driver’s side car door.

That’s all there is to say about that.

Co-op dwellers can’t deal with life in the wild.

Click here for the sad truth.

(link provided by cousin Bonnie.)

1. What is a chicken’s favorite color?
a) Cordon Bleu
b) Rhode Island Red
c) Brown, because brown eggs are local eggs and local eggs are fresh
d) Paas pastel yellow (paastello?)

After reading the Dr. Laura Schlessenger article posted by Scott Spotman, one of my squirrel buddies sent me the following transcript from the Dr. Laura’s radio program.

Dr. Laura: You’re on the air. Make it snappy.

Caller: Umm . . . Dr. Laura?

Dr. Laura: Is this what you call snappy? I don’t have all day, sweety.

Caller: Dr. Laura, I’m my kid’s mom, and my husband is my kid’s dad, and my kids are my kids . . . umm, kids. Dr. Laura, my kid’s dad climbed our oak tree and he won’t come down. He’s been up there for TWO DAYS!

Dr. Laura: Is he chittering at you from the upper branches?

Caller: Yes! Dr. Laura, you’re sooooooooo smart!

Dr. Laura: And you’re not. Didn’t you know he was a squirrel before you married him?

Caller: Yes, but I thought I could change him.

Dr. Laura: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhg!

Caller: Dr. Laura, he’s an animal. He wants sex all the time!

Dr. Laura: More than six hours per year?

Caller: Much more! And he wants to do it doggie style. Dr. Laura, he’s a squirrel — it isn’t natural.

Dr. Laura: I see this all the time. He wasn’t getting enough tail, so he treed himself.

Caller: Dr. Laura, isn’t he morally obligated to come down and mow the lawn? If the grass gets much longer, we’ll have to rent a baler.

Dr. Laura: You may as well write him a John-Deere-John letter, sweety, ’cause he ain’t comin’ down to mow no mow. Look on the bright side — you’ll never need to be in the mood again! Six hours of free time, baby!

Caller: Sob. Sniff. Thank you soooooo much, Dr. Laura.

According to Scientists at the International Institute of Dating, when a lady meets a squirrel, she makes irreversible decisions about his date-worthiness within the first seven seconds.

Just my luck. I don’t hit my stride until at least the eight or nine second mark.

Tony Lama’s mobile store — the “boot bus” — was impounded by SPD last Saturday evening.

“I couldn’t look the other way this time,” said officer Sean O’Malley. “Citizens complain every time a big cowboy boot parks on the wrong side of Worthington Street. What a headache. How am I supposed to tow a freakin’ boot on wheels? I mean, do I tow it by the heel or do I tow it by the toe?”

It’s still too hot.

Although it wasn’t technically a sex scene, Charton Heston did get naked in The Ten Commandments. A lot of people didn’t notice this because he was fairly well covered by a long stunt beard and some stone tablets. It was certainly a more subtle performance than the raunchy sex scene he did in Planet of the Apes — the one where he said, “get your hands off my pistol, you big ape.” That was unfortunate.

The DJ tosses his hair extensions, turns on the mic and says, “Ladies and gentleman, please welcome Titus, Commodus, and the insatiable Tiberius!”

“That’s weird,” I say.

The bartender lifts my glass and wipes the bar-top with a moist towel. “What’s weird?” she says.

“The stage names,” I say. “Are all the dancers named after Roman Emperors?”

“It’s the owner’s latest idea,” she says. “He thinks it sounds ‘upscale’.”

I nod my head, but I’m confused. When the owner says “upscale” he must mean “classy,” or at very least “expensive.” I follow that far, but I can’t get the rest of the way to Rome. Sure, the Roman motif is perfect for a strip joint, but there’s a big difference between classy and classical. Eureka, that’s it!

When I return from my thinking tour, the bartender is gone. Opportunity lost. I test drive my “upscale” theory on another customer, and when that effort fails, I turn my attention to the TV behind the bar. Tonight’s feature is a old gangster film, possibly Key Largo. It’s the one in which Edward G. Robinson and his mobster goons hold Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall hostage in Lionel Barrymore’s strip club.

It’s a good movie, even with the sound off. When the action gets hot, the lovely but vengeful Nero pulls up a chair. Edward G. Robinson is taunting Lionel Barrymore, who is struggling to rise from his wheelchair. “This is my favorite part,” Nero says. Her Roman mini-tunic is fastened only at the waist, allowing more than a glimpse of her purple and gold embroidered demi bra and panties. A black garter secures a few dollars to her upper inner thigh.

Lionel Barrymore swings wildly and falls to the floor. Edward G. Robinson stands over him and laughs.

Nero says, “Take that you old crip,” and then she gets up and walks away. “Bye, bye, honey,” she says over a shoulder. “I have to find that trash-talking bitch-whore Commodus.”

“Commodus?” I say. “Have you looked in the bathroom?” I bust a gut laughing, but Nero just sneers.

For the rest of the evening, I do as the Romans do. I stare at the featured dancer, who is either the porn star emperor Caligula, or the implant emperor Toobigula. Just before closing time, the Spanish-speaking emperor, Vespasian, sits on my lap. She rubs her breasts together like a Boy Scout making fire with sticks. She says, “Muy largo, no?” I misunderstand. “Yes,” I say, “Key Largo. You’re a fan, too? You must be Nero’s friend.”