I don’t mean these guys.
I mean these guys.
So I’m sitting, isolated, in a dark room, and this chipmunk starts telling me about running into this human couple.
What? You wanna hear the story or what?
Here’s what the little guy told me.
Chipmunk - Just Bein’ Real
by an unnamed Chipmunk as told to Headley Hauser
“Check out the chipmunk. The dude cracks me up.”
So I say:
If you stopped stuffing your over-worked gob with whatever you’re eating, you might see that Chipmunks are not funny. We work hard, and face great risks. We spend every moment gathering food while dodging cats, owls, snakes, Oldsmobiles, and mockingbirds that don’t take kindly to us storing nuts near their nests.
You think mockingbirds aren’t all that scary? Try pissing off an eagle twice your weight. Is it any wonder we zip around as fast as we do? We’re not doing it for your amusement, buddy.
“Don’t laugh at him. I think he’s cute.”
So I say:
Yeah, we’re cute. It’s not like we try to be, but if cute means some 120 pound omnivore decides not to stick us on a metal pole and serve us as hors d’oeuvres, we’ll take cute. Cute is something top of the food chain worries about. Those of us who only make legumes tremble, worry about keeping four legs, a tail and a head. If I go to my nest with all the body parts I woke up with – that’s cute, glamorous, sweet, enchanting, funny, gnarly, or any other of the useless adjectives you omnivores use because you know there isn’t a 200 foot snake waiting to suck you down as you head into Wal-Mart to pick up travel-sized toiletries for your next trip to Disney World.
“I like the little dude’s racing stripes.”
So I say:
Racing stripes? You’re comparing my camouflage to ornamentation you put on your transportation so you can intentionally go too fast and end or cripple your leisurely and wasteful lives? Maybe you should put racing stripes on your toothbrush so you can crash it into the underside of your brain in order to return your overly-fed bio-chemicals to the earth. That would be useful. Maybe you could fertilize a tree.
Oh, I’m forgetting. You humans either incinerate your nutrients, or box them in hermetically sealed vaults lest you do anything for creatures other than yourselves.
“Don’t eat ‘em all – throw some to the little guy.”
So I go:
What’s this? sniff, sniff… Peanuts? How many are there? One, two, three. I really should learn to count higher than three. Uncountable peanuts! I’m rich! I’m rich!
Gee, I love humans.