It seems like a pretty big day when you give it a little thought. The President stopped in Cincinnati to grab some coneys* and pimp his jobs plan by talking about fixing/replacing the bridge connecting the two states of his Congressional archenemies. As if that wasn’t enough, scientists at CERN believe they recorded a particle travelling faster than the speed of light.
Now, just for the record, with the possible exception of an adult racing to the restroom in a public place when that familiar pre-Pepto-Bismol cramp strikes out of nowhere, moving faster than the speed of light is supposed to be impossible according to Relativistic physics.
So, yeah, pretty big stuff, indeed. Which is, of course, why I’m going to write about a squirrel today.
Well, not just any squirrel. A poor, dead squirrel. Let’s call him Rocky.
Poor Rocky had the misfortune of having his path intersect with something much larger and heavier this morning, right near the end of my driveway, in the middle of the street. The Puddinette came home from running some errands before I left for work and informed me of the sad affair.
As is my way, of course, I shrugged and went back to thinking about space ships and robots that can become hamburgers…a tasty, tasty, transformation.
After my loving wife applied the appropriate “attitude adjustment” with my now least-favorite cast iron frying pan*, I saw the issue in a completely new light. That is, the underlining problem with Rocky the Recently Deceased became abundantly clear. Namely, we have three sons, two of which are now old enough to be mesmerized by the proverbial dead critter.
So, realizing that in all likelihood, Rocky would undergo a heavy battery of tests administered with pointy sticks this afternoon as soon as they boys got home from school, we agreed that a call to the city was in order. Because, obviously, the city crew is supposed to come out and take care of your roadkill issues for you.
Except, apparently they stopped doing that about the same time Mrs. Cleaver ripped her pearls off in disgust and the milkman quit delivering two quarts of whole milk every week. That’s right, the lovely woman on the phone at the city building where we so happily live, thrive, and most importantly, pay taxes suggested that we go clean it up ourselves. You know, like we’d do if our dog crapped in the neighbor’s yard. Because the public works guys don’t do stuff unless it’s like a deer or something.
I guess there’s a weight limit on what public works considers a keeper.
The thing is, though, this wasn’t the neighbor’s yard we were talking about, nor dog pooh, for that matter. And the last time I checked, the pet store didn’t sell overpriced dead squirrel clean-up bags that you conveniently turn inside out. Our squirrel wasn’t a cute little pile of dootie, either.
Oh, no no.
Rocky was basically unrecognizable. The poor critter looked like he swallowed a whole live grenade and then ran into the street, chittering that we release his comrades. Or he met his end at the hands of a full speed steam locomotive travelling past my house for some reason. I mean, isn’t it a little early for the Polar Express?
I don’t know. What I do know is that I don’t care what kind of pickup bag you might consider using, trying to get Rocky disposed of in that manner would be like trying to pick up Aunt Judy’s strange Ambrosia salad with an inside-out plastic grocery bag while wearing mittens.
So what do we do poor Rocky? I’m still not sure. Hopefully those scientists will harness this speed-of-light research and get me some kind of disintegration ray soon.
Otherwise, I’ll never be able to eat Aunt Judy’s food at Thanksgiving again.
*I made the coney part up, but come on, you know he had to get some chili or goetta action while he was here.
**Just kidding; no skulls or frying pans were damaging in the making of this post