Aw, for real? You’re just gonna walk into my space. Come under my tree. And come diggin’ around for my nuts that I strategically buried underground on this premises?

For real?

You’re just gonna come sneaking under the shade of this grand old oak tree? This old oak tree that my grandfather used to jump to from that telephone wire? This same grand old oak tree that my family has nested in, raised our children in, and strategically buried the fallen nuts from for three generations?

I was burying nuts over in Vietnam while your daddy was still hairless and sucking his nutrients through your grandma. Hold on. Let me get this straight….

You’re tellin’ me, that you’re just gonna roll up, like you’re some kind of rouge detective, and start stealing my hard-earned, strategically buried nuts from their strategic hiding places? Newsflash, Inspector Snatch-It! I don’t play that shit! You might as well turn in your badge and your gun now because you’re fucked. I have all of these nuts logged in a 3-D map of the world within the deepest synapses of my brain. And I don’t mean IMAX 3-D, I mean real world 3-D.

You must be new to this neighborhood, because if you had asked around, you would have been quickly and emphatically corrected about your assumption that these nuts are for just any old bushy-tailed prick like yourself to be digging around for. Just for making that assumption I should bust you upside the head. I should take you down to the schoolyard and hang you from the monkey bars by your tail and put your ears in a little ponytail so all the other John Dellinger wannabes can see what the fuck is up around my oak tree.

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Squirrel under an oak tree
NOT-FUCKING-AROUND FACE

I’ll bust you up so bad that you’ll go to the hospital and they’ll have to call a hospital to treat their hospital for the emotional distress that treating you put them in. Then that hospital will be like, "Whoa, man, I don’t know if we can take this on…" Trust me, I’ll tie you to a windmill and make that whirligig into a squirrely-gig! Later on I’ll act like things are cool between us and call you over for dinner, but I’ll serve a bowl of shit you don’t even like, even if I don’t like it either. I don’t care! My taste buds understand vengeance better than Hulk Hogan understands frilly scarfs.

What? You don’t think I will?

Trust me, Ratatouille, I was burying nuts over in Vietnam while your daddy was still hairless and sucking his nutrients through your grandma. I’ll straight up hang your ass from a tree and use your noggin as a speed bag. I’ll bust out those buckteeth and use them as foot pedals on my grand piano. I’ll use your arm as a back scratcher, your leg as a cane, and make the rest of you into a casserole that I’ll bring to the work Christmas party.

Show up around my tree like some kind of big shot. Pfft.

Diggin’ around for my strategically buried nuts. C’mon.

What? You think I’m taking this too far? You think I’m overreacting about these couple of nuts you’ve robbed from some perfectly strategic burials? You know, those spots are ruined now. Now I could only bury them there if my strategy was to have them scavenged by the likes of you. Thanks a lot, Alvin and the Dickmunch.

You know what I should really do? I should go out—

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"Honey, stop talking to the squirrels. They can’t hear you."

Oh, hi Carol. I made French toast.

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