writing
I recently took a class in humor writing as part of my eternal quest to never actually finish college. One of our assignments was to write a parody. My professor happens to be obsessed with squirrels. So, without further ado, I present to you, "The Squirrel," which should be read in the same tone with the same reverence with which you would read Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven."
Once approaching finals dreary, while I studied, tired, weary, Over many hefty and expensive texts from the campus bookstore; While I snoozed, energy sapping, suddenly there came a tapping As of one gently rapping, rapping at my apartment door. “It’s a neighbor,” I muttered, “tapping at my apartment door. Noise complaint and nothing more.” I believe I do remember ’t’was the third week in December, And every faculty member wrote office hours on their door. And while I dreaded tomorrow;—for I’d forgotten to borrow Books on the subject of Marlowe—Marlowe, whom I do abhor; For Faustus is not one to trust despite prefix of doctor. Besides that he’s such a bore. Then the scratchy and uncertain rustling of my Walmart curtain Stilled me—chilled me knowing I had opened the window before. But just now, slowing the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “It’s a neighbor out there pleading, ‘Open your apartment door.’ Just a neighbor out there pleading, ‘Open your apartment door.’ Noise complaint and nothing more.” Finally, my courage stronger; keeping them outside no longer, “Dude,” said I, “or Lady, sorry my music came through the floor. But the sick beats they are rapping, are preventing me from napping, But then you came softly tapping, tapping at Apartment Four And I wasn’t sure I heard you”—here I swung open the door. Empty hall and nothing more. Into the hall I stood peering, minutes out there wondering, fearing Doubting, dreaming dreams no co-ed would have thought to dream before: Dreams of crushed skulls lying broken, if a robber would have broke in, Pools of blood for me to soak in, my head bashed upon the floor. I longed to run, my knees shaking as I tiptoed cross the floor, Swallowing my fear once more. Back to my apartment turning, smelling something that was burning, Where my microwave was zapping food I’d placed in there before. “Well, at least I know what this is,” I sighed, opening some Twixes, And a bag of Hershey’s Kisses, spilling them across the floor. Leaving those there for later, I open the microwave door. Burned the food, but wait, there’s more! Now my heart sinks to the gutter, knowing I’ve melted all the butter, And nothing stays open this late, not even the corner store. But there is the chance that maybe there’s still something that could save me, If I made the freezing journey to the campus food bank or If I call up Jimmy John’s they might deliver to my door. Oh, but hold on; I am poor. Then while away my thoughts are whiling and the phone my fingers dialing, Something in my kitchen which then must have come in through the door. I’ll admit I screamed like a girl, and I am sure my blood did curl, As I looked upon that squirrel watching me from the kitchen floor. I leaped up onto the table, not seeing the collar he wore. Scoffed the squirrel, “What a bore.” I gaped at him quite insanely, shocked to hear him speak so plainly Thoughts I had about my own home when I studied its décor. So I couldn’t help agreeing, as with new eyes I was seeing How the wallpaper was peeling off sheetrock from ’84. Then the beast again scurried across my dirty kitchen floor. Thinking I was just a bore. I hoped the squirrel was only seeking comfort, feeling lonely, Still I considered giving him a little nudge out the door. Before a word could be uttered, a pile of plates came uncluttered From their stack they loudly fluttered, shattering there on the floor. How I wish this beast would leave me, ‘stead of running ‘round the floor. Leave me to my life of bore. Knowing I had let this bloke in, hoping that he was housebroken, Stepping down off the table, I gently tread across the floor. Wond’ring if he had a master, I reached for him; he was faster. Such a dissident disaster! Time to even up the score. As I lunged for its tail, the squirrel through my apartment tore, “Now through your wall I bore.” I swear that squirrel was smiling, finding nuts he’d been stockpiling In the wall of my apartment, just above a cabinet drawer. And then, without time for thinking, wasting no time even blinking, Across the floor I was slinking, the squirrel’s tail my hand reached for. But then that gross, gangly, gloating, gray, and baleful squirrel did roar “Get away from me, you boar!” “If it’s me you are addressing, your tone, it is quite distressing, Causing me to want you gone. Please make your way back out the door. Do not think that I am whining, when I’m simply realigning Essays in need of refining regarding Sir Thomas More.” “Why are teachers still assigning drivel by that fraud Thomas More? I, myself, think he’s a bore.” Darting past the soap dispenser, and making me even tenser, That squirrel headed once again across the slick kitchen floor. “Stop!” I cried. “Must you torment me; darting to and fro frequently? I just want to live here rent-free. You wreck my place, I am done for. They said I could stay here rent-free, caring for Apartment Four.” The squirrel yawned, “What a bore.” I must get rid of this devil and take this beast down a level; Chase him out of my apartment, maybe to the second floor. A calm night is all I wanted, but now I find myself haunted By this beast who is undaunted. I’ve decided this is war! This squirrel darts around my kitchen, unaware that this is war, Blind to the ill will I bore. To rid myself of this evil I attempt basic retrieval. I’ll try to get at the right angle to sweep him up off the floor. Knowing that I’m no fair maiden, I could likely stick a blade in, Much like an Iron Maiden described in ancient tales of yore. I think I have one handmade in Asgard by Odin’s first son, Thor. That should rid me of this boar. I will not cry at our parting, for the fiend has started farting, And it stinks like hundreds of fish, washing dead upon the lakeshore. But now I find myself chokin’ as that squirrel’s started smokin’, Must be weed, for he is tokin’ and rolling joints by the score. I must destroy him, get him out! This is more than I’ll stand for! Must resume my night of bore. But the squirrel isn’t quitting, now he’s sitting. Now he’s sitting?! Now he’s making himself comfy on the rug by the front door. Now he no longer is seeming oh so dreadful. Why, he’s dreaming! And I set aside my scheming as I join him on the floor. We’ll stay there always, lighting up, blowing smoke rings by the score. School, you know, is such a bore.
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Jacinta M. CarterProfessional Book Nerd Archives
December 2017
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