Don't Let This Be You
There were three of them standing against the wall. Looking shifty.
Funnily enough, if you had stopped and asked them, you would have found out that they were an Irishman, and Englishman, and an American. The very same from the jokes.
There once was an animated wall that inhabited this sort of geeky kind of world called a MOO. "People" hung out on those MOOs, of which there were multiple, and typed things at one another, because they were on the computer, and sometimes they laughed, sometimes got turned on, and then sometimes also got pissed off and threatened to sue for sexual harassment and other forms of abuse. It's just the sort of thing that goes on sometimes. Some people, particularly the people who wrote about the animated wall, found the wall inordinately funny.
At any rate, neither the wall nor the three joke men are relevant to the story. This story begins in a small hotel in the downtown area.
Once, living near this hotel, was a squirrel. And by near I mean living on a windowsill of one of the rooms that had easy access to a hefty tree branch which was connected to a tree that connected down into the sidewalk in a spot littered with used gum, cigarette packs, dog poop, and a small plastic case that once housed a lot more glitter than it currently did. So this squirrel, as things go for squirrels, had it good, real good. Had it been around in the days of chamber-pots and it being all right, legally-speaking, to fling things out of your window, this may not have been the most ideal living quarters for a squirrel, but, as squirrels don't often live more than ten years, even if this practice came back in vogue it probably wouldn't be for a few years yet that it was adopted at hotels like this one, and by that time who knew what might have happened to the squirrel.
One of the lessons from this is that if you have any favorite squirrels or remember any particular squirrels fondly from either your college days or some other life-defining, ehm, time, go to them now. In fact, if may already be too late, they may have already disappeared. Replaced by very similar looking squirrels, but still, they'd be different.
Life for this squirrel, in its posh digs outside the window of 328, was pretty good. It spent a good deal of its time running up and down the easily accessible tree, its little claws pushed into its paws on the way down, supporting its whole weight, its little claws nearly ripped from their moorings on the way up, sometimes carrying some nuts, at other times carrying an empty cigarette pack, just to see if anyone had left any nuts in it, by any chance.
This squirrel liked to pride itself that it was one of the best nut collectors it knew. Best nut collectors and best crumply plastic and cardboard sort of thing (which we know as an empty cigarette pack, but squirrels don't know these sort of things, you see) collector. Or maybe that was hoarding. Whatever. It hadn't been to a squirrel awards ceremony in years... or months, anyway. It was tough to tell. Time just went so quickly as a squirrel it was hard to keep track of time. One minute it was cold, next minute it was scorching. It had a theory it was something to do with the tail. It would spend hours transfixed by its own bushy tail, undulating before its eyes. The greys and lighter greys and whites, when it got older, would rustle by out of the corner of its eye, and then it'd pull it near, never quite able to contain all the little hairs, especially if it was windy out, which it usually was, three floors above the pavement.
And then BOOM! Off down the tree again it'd go! Or up, if it was down on the ground, mesmerized by its tail.
Until one day our poor squirrel came to the end of its road. Or, rather, end of its tree. Because someone cut the thing down because there had been a gypsy moth infestation that year and they wound up killing the tree. And it never noticed because it was too busy staring at its tail and running up and down the tree, not taking the slightest care of its nails.
There is probably a lesson in there.
Summary
disclaimer:
I have no idea what this one is all about. Sorry about that. Not the faintest clue. Must be getting late or something. At any rate, here it is, for your approval, or not, have it your way. Like a fast food restaurant, with which we have no affiliation. None. So there you have it.
I would give you some pithy advice here if I had any. Eat your vegetables. There.
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