Sharing some scary squirrel stories

I was brainstorming with friends, trying to figure out what I could write this column about and several things came to mind.

I thought about writing something on registration and how if I ever met that lady whose voice is on the registration recording, I would be scared of her.

I also thought about discussing the recent election. I mean, anything about Jesse “The Body” Ventura is funny.

But despite my discussions of these two topics with my friends, I’ve decided to go out on a limb.

I am going to talk about squirrels.

The thing is, I keep encountering really unusual squirrels. What I have noticed about these squirrels is a bit alarming and it is my civic duty to share it with the general public.

First, I’ll tell you about some of the stranger ones I’ve recently seen. One who lives near the Academic Center moves really slow, like in slow-motion. That might not sound too weird, but squirrels generally move quickly, so it can be unsettling to see “Slow Squirrel.”

The first time I saw “Slow Squirrel,” I thought he was sick and about to die, but then I kept seeing him again and again in the same place. He’s crazy.

This summer, I saw a squirrel at the Grand Canyon that was about the size of a raccoon. I mean this was one fat-ass squirrel. You have no idea.

When we sat down for lunch, it tried to crawl into our laps and take our sandwiches. It was accustomed to tourists, I guess, but it needed to cut back on the PB&Js.

Another squirrel experience I need to mention is the suicidal squirrels I drove through every day going to work this summer. They would run into my wheels on purpose, and I’m being absolutely serious when I say that on the average morning commute, I would have to swerve twice to avoid hitting two different squirrels.

Maybe I’m just being nice in calling them “Suicidal Squirrels,” maybe they’re just “Dumb-as-Rock Squirrels.” Maybe I could’ve tied this in with the recent election.

But now for the most upsetting squirrel story. When I was little, everytime I saw a squirrel or rabbit, he would scurry away frightened.

They were timid. These animals couldn’t be approached. And while rabbits seem to continue this coyness, I have noticed that squirrels (particularly the nasty black ones) have become increasingly bolder. So bold, in fact, that I can unquestionably say it will not be long before they become our masters.

I first noticed it when they began to make open eye contact with me. And when they did, I always felt as though they were looking STRAIGHT INTO MY SOUL.

Usually, after I looked into the eyes of a squirrel, I would go a little nuts afterwards and hit a little kid or something. But if you need more proof, here it is. The following is a true story that happened to me last year. I was innocently walking back from Russian class and I noticed a particularly attractive squirrel sitting in the Quad, chewing on a nut (as squirrels often do). I thought to myself, “My, what an attractive squirrel!”

I walked by, just a little happier, knowing that such an animal lived in my University’s Quad. But then, without warning, the attractive squirrel looked up into my eyes and for a split second I thought, “This is no attractive squirrel. It’s Satan’s tool of destruction.”

Then it randomly jumped at me and attacked my leg. It wasn’t hurting me, but simply hanging on to the back of my leg. I was jumping up and down and shaking my leg, trying to get the damn thing off of me. Finally, I flung him off and he went flying across the Quad.

People were staring at me and wondering who was this girl who just catapulted a squirrel across the Quad.

Then to make matters worse, the guy walking in front of me said, “Man, what did you say to that squirrel? You must have pissed him off.”

The whole experience was quite unexpected. Was this merely an unfortunate incident? Was I just the scapegoat for an unhappy squirrel? Or are they slowly implementing their plan for dominance? You decide.

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