The Throne

“Don’t you love it?” She asked, entirely without sarcasm.

“It… it looks like an anus!”

“Well, sure, to you! But that’s the beauty of it – is it an anus, or is it not?”

He stared at her, mouth agape, searching for the joke. “I’m not going to spend $14,000 on a picture of an anus.”

“Well, it could also be where an asteroid hit earth. Or the top of a volcano. Or a very strange insect!”

“Darling, it’s an asshole. And those are two butt cheeks. And over there is the small of the back…”

“According to your interpretation! But you see naked women everywhere. I see some brilliant brushwork and vibrant colors.”

“Can’t we just get the other one? The respectable landscape over there?” He gesticulated wildly, exasperated, and suddenly feeling choked by his top shirt button.

“This one might be a landscape too. And it’ll match the shower tiles so perfectly.” She was staring intently at the puckered picture, with a furrowed brow, taking in every line.

“Wait, you want this for the bathroom?!”

“Well yes, that’s what we’re shopping for, aren’t we?”

“You’re asking me to buy a $14,000 picture of an asshole! For us to stare at while we we’re on the shitter?!

“Well, if you’re going to insist that it looks like a woman’s posterior, then yes. Frankly, I think it looks more like a beautifully wizened peach…”

“A goddamn, rotten peach, what in the world….” He began to mutter incomprehensibly, even to himself.

“Well it’s abstract, dear.”

“There’s nothing abstract about it. Look at the goddamn title.”

“It’s called The Throne. That could mean anything! Mother Earth has a throne, too, I imagine…”

“I’d rather have a photograph of my own damn asshole than this $14,000 piece of crap.” He almost chuckled at his own pun, but refrained, lest she begin to think he was softening on the idea.

“Well, with enough filters, I’m sure a photograph of your anus would be quite lovely, sweetheart… if a bit…woolly.”

“Oh, now we’re talking about how kempt each others poopers are, is that it?!” He suddenly became aware of eyes on him, and looked behind him to see a very stern gallery owner staring at them over her thick-rimmed glasses.

“It was just an observation, dear, nothing to get defensive about. You know I like how furry you are.”

“I’m not going to stare at a $14,000 anus while I’m pooping.”

“Darling, you’ll be staring at your phone, and you know it. What else do you do for hours in there?”

She had a point. “Then why hang anything at all?!”

“Because I like to be inspired, dear, and this painting inspires me!”

He searched her face again, desperately seeking a sparkle of jest. But, finding none, he was defeated. “Eating prunes would be a lot more inspiring – and cheaper,” he replied, as he walked to the counter to pay.

Death and Birth of a Dick Pic

  • Every time a woman is harassed in the workplace, cat called on the street, or is told to “smile more,” a dick pic gets its wings… And thus… starts it’s journey.

    Once winged, the dick pic goes upwards and onwards into the cloud,  to hover, mentor, and nurture younger, newer dick pics. From the moment of conception, when there’s only just the idea of a dick pic, a twinkle in the owner’s eye, a neurological phallic spark fires and the guardian dick pic swoops in and gets to work:
    Lighting: Is there a shadow? Does that shadow help elongate its subject like when you stand with your back to the sun? Or is it too dark? Where does the dick end and the shadow begin? ” No! Not the fluorescent light!!! Never the Fluorescent lights!” Guardian Dick Pic (GDP) screams in horror. Public restrooms, hospitals, and classrooms have fluorescent lighting and we don’t want those associated with an otherwise glorious penis!
    Grooming: Neat and trimmed back far enough to make the dick look bigger? Not too far back or it’s porn star territory, not too bushy because it could be covering that extra 2 centimeters of shaft that could make all the difference. Is there enough hair in that one spot to cover what might look like a herpe but really it’s just an old jerk off callous? Are the small wispy hairs on the dick visible in the shot? That’s death for a dick pic. “Use the scissors,” whispers GDP… “Not the razor…. Remember the razor…. Always remember the razor…” But is it GDP, or just the wind?
    Context: GDP is there to guide the premise… What do you want your dick pic to communicate to the recipient? Is this a great gift? An honor to receive? Must it look stately? Should it wear a tie? Or is this advertising?  An exclamation point at the end of a persuasive argument… No… It IS the argument. It needs to say, “you need this,” or “you want this,” or a less ambitious, “this is OK, right? Please don’t show this to all of your friends and laugh.” GDP is there to help set the stage, the mise-en-scene for the fledgling dick pic. And one thing GDP will NEVER say is, “This is a bad idea. Don’t do this.”
    And thus, as one dick pic dies, a hundred more are born… Wherever there is a choice to be made: do something productive and kind,  or send a dick pic? GDP is there. Whenever someone innocently grabs their phone to check their messages, to see how their mother handled her chemotherapy that day… GDP is there. And whatever shape, size, or disgusting disfigurement, GDP is there to wrap it in the warmth of it’s wings and tell it, “don’t worry. Everyone wants to see you. They just don’t know it yet”…
  • By:  Jennifer Kinkade

My Vagina is Trying to Destroy Me

Looks pretty harmless, right? Wrong.
Looks pretty harmless, right? Wrong.

Vaginas. We either have them, or we don’t. They may not be the most suitable conversational topic – you don’t usually greet someone –

“Hey! How’s your vagina doing?” 
 “Oh, mine’s just great! How’s yours?”
 “Wonderful! Thanks for asking!”
Maybe we should. That’s A LOT more interesting than the ‘ol “How are you?” and the mandatory, “Fine, and you?” that comes afterward. Here’s a test. Women only, though, because if you’re a man, you just might be arrested. The next time you see a female friend of yours, go ahead and ask how her vagina’s doing. She’ll either really appreciate it because it really took a pounding and she needs to talk about it, or, she’ll be horrified and never speak to you again. Either way you win. You can either connect on a vaginal level (we’ve all had trials and tribulations with our lady bits) or, you can weed out the easily offended (and those in denial), leaving room for more true and honest friendships. Now, if you are a guy reading this… congratulations for still hanging in there; Mad props. I am genuinely surprised you’re still here.  Say the word “vagina” around a guy and he immediately recoils even though (if he’s straight) it’s his life’s mission to get in there. There’s just something about that word. Vaaaaa-gyne-aaaa. I think it’s the “gyne” sounding part of the word. It’s unsettling. It’s kind of like the word “moist”. It’s just a really uncomfortable sound and you can test that by saying “moist” as many times as you can at a dinner, and see how many people put down their forks. The “gyne” in “vagina” is where all the nasty shit happens. The word is like a roller coaster: it starts off all nice and and slow with the ‘Va”, then as the ride hits that first peak and you dangle over the edge of a colossal fall, crazy twists and tuns, upside down dangling, only your harness to keep you from plummeting to the  hard earth… that’s the “GYNE” part. After you navigate through all of that with your life still intact, the ride slows down, pulls back into the station where safety awaits, and “aaaaa”.
OK, now, if you’re a guy and still reading this… pat on the back for you! What I’m about to share with you might just be some invaluable information and possibly destroy your sex drive forever. Girls, most of you will know what I’m talking about, but since I’m a person of extremes, this will make you feel at peace with your vagina. Any troubles with her in the past will be forgiven, and you and your vagina can feel secure once again after reading this. This is like couples’ therapy for you and her. Sometimes listening to the woes of others can bring you two that much closer.
My vagina is a gossipy bitch. Whatever happens to her, she just can’t wait to tell me about and bore it into my brain. Anything vagina related gets immediately transferred, analyzed, and interpreted negatively by my brain. It seems as if my brain and lady business are always at war, and it’s been so since the first time I tried to have sex. Yeah… you read that right. TRIED to have sex. It seriously didn’t work. My hooha sealed up tighter than an oyster shell and there was no way we were breaking out the shucking utensils, so I literally couldn’t hand over my V-CARD without heavy artillery getting involved. At 17, it was embarrassing, and I ended up apologizing to my boyfriend of 10 months profusely (yes, 10 months! I was giving him my virginity, not a Swatch) – and I had heard it was usually the other way around. I was ready for it to be quick and awkward, but I just got the awkward part, and it was her fault. The very first time I tired to use her, she turned her back on me. Even when I told her this was like one of THE most important moments of my life, she didn’t care. She was having none of it. Since there’s a direct line from my vagina to my brain, I quickly learned that this was only just the beginning of an epic war; a war she was determined I lose.
Another instance where my vagina betrayed me – my first few visits to the gynecologist. See? There’s that sound again! GYNE… it’s what gives her power. The first trip to the gyno was a real treat for my vagina and me. I laid on the table and cried during the entire examination, and when the doctor asked me how school was going, I sobbed, “How can you ask me that at at time like this?” She asked me if I had been molested.
 I  had to find a new lady doctor. Thanks, vagina! Good gynecologists are hard to find and she sent me trekking for a new one. It’s really hard to nail down a decent doctor who won’t look into your psyche when you cry during every exam. My vagina just told my brain, “Cry, bitch! Cry!” and so, I did. It screamed, “We’re being violated! Get this thing outta me!” Too bad when she finally let me have sex, she didn’t use that kind of discretion… It would have come in pretty handy at times. But noooo. When it came to sex she was like the devil in my ear, “Dooooo it….This is a really good idea…” It rarely ever was.
A few years went by and it seemed as if my brain and vagina signed a treaty of some kind.  Things were going smoothly in that department, I stopped crying at doctor appointments but still couldn’t do the “casual talk” when I had a metal crank inside of me, and if someone would have asked, “Hey! How’s your vagina?” I would have been able to say, “She’s doing okay! We’ve made some real progress!”

That is until back at the docs… I was told that my she-devil was on the verge of cervical cancer (she would fucking do that to me…) and I needed tests and biopsies and what-have-you. My vagina KNOWS I don’t do well at the gyno’s; that it takes every fiber of my being to just bear down until it’s over, and she does this to me? Fuck the cancer, I was more freaked out by the multitude of appointments and crotch bearing I’d have to do. My first biopsy, I fainted on the table. Yep. Passed right the fuck out. The doctors and nurses said they had never seen anything like that before. I was a first! Yay! I had never fainted in my life before or since, so why wouldn’t it be fitting for me to do it bottoms off and feet in goddamn stirrups? Yee haw.

Of course it had to be cervical… any other cancer would have been less sexually invasive and less mentally damaging. See? I told you my vagina was a bitch. And she kept telling my brain that I’m disgusting now; that I’m even too gross for me, let alone anyone else. My vagina was not doing fine. My brain was not doing fine. We took a real backslide there and I wished I could just leave that bitch at home. But no, she just had to go with me everywhere…so codependent. Because of my “vapors” (stone cold pass out) in the doctor’s office, they scheduled the procedure to rid my cervix of the potentially cancerous cells at the hospital where I got to be completely put under and wake up when it was all over. Small blessings…
It’s been many years now, and many hours in argument back and forth, and I guess we’re doing better. She’s not trying to give me cancer anymore, so that’s a start. She’s still fussy like a damn baby when it’s period time and she sends giant migraines to my brain, but at least that’s only occasionally. She still tells me sometimes that I’m gross, but I try not to listen. She still tries to get me in trouble with boys, “Doooo it…This is a good idea!” but I try not to to listen (most of the time at any rate), but no one can stop her when she’s on a mission. She’s like having a really sweet roommate who secretly wants to murder me. She’ll coax me into making bad decisions, then when my brain succumbs, she tells me I’m going to end up right back in that doctor’s chair and I get to obsess about her until my next visit – where I still shake like I’m having the DTs.

When she can’t stir up that kind of trouble, she’ll send me excruciating period headaches (but I got it down to only four times a year, bitch! Who’s winning now?) She’s The Bad Seed in vagina form and sometimes I wonder if she’ll have to be struck by lightening as well to stop her from destroying the town.

 I just want her to be fun. A vagina without an agenda. We could be like total besties if we could only just get on the same page. I like a lot of the same stuff she does…she’d be surprised to see how much we have in common. We have the same taste in boys, we both know where “the spot” is and enjoy it immensely, we both have great taste in underwear and grooming. When we’re in sync, the world is a beautiful, magical place… If only she didn’t have a knife behind her back the whole time.
By:  Jennifer Kinkade

Have the Lambs Stopped Screaming?

The Silence of the Lambs is one of the most iconic, memorable, and shit in your pants every time someone says, “It puts the lotion on the skin” movies of my generation. Hell, I’m going to go out on a limb here and declare it’s a shit your pants movie for ALL generations. For those of you who live beneath a rock and have not seen this psycho-thriller: First, you disgust me. What the Hell is wrong with you? When one is born, they should be given love, shelter, food, and a copy of Silence of the Lambs. Yes, it is probably a little too mature for a baby (babies are really stupid), but just as Jews celebrate coming into “manhood” or “womanhood” by Bar/Bat Mitzvah, so should we celebrate the transition between being a stupid baby and becoming a stupid adult in a coming of age Silence of the Lambs Mitzvah, complete with fava beans and a nice Chianti. Just like sneaking your first beer from your parents’ fridge, getting your first handjob or fingerbang in the backseat of a car that’s way too small, or any other”firsts” that freak you out yet are totally exciting at the same time, Silence of the Lambs encompasses the feelings of all of those first  horrors and excitements (your first period, or for a guy – your first stiff sock)  wrapped up into one glorious serial killer/cannibal film. Plus, you get to see a dude tuck his penis between his legs so when he stands, proud and naked wearing the scalp and hair of one of his victims, it totally looks like he has a vag. Win-Win.

Now that I have properly educated you on the virtues of this fine piece of American cinema, I can easily say there have been two, yes TWO, Silence of the Lambs moments in my life.  Even one Silence of the Lambs moment would  be enough to sufficiently fuck you up, and I’ve experienced two. I’m totally fine, though. No, really, I am (somebody please hold me).

When I was nine, my family moved from the thriving metropolis that is Tucson, Arizona, to a large patch of desert 45 minutes east called Vail, Arizona. They said we were moving out into the “country” with acres of land, wide open skies, and none of the staples of a well conducted society – such as a grocery store, or people with all of their teeth. When I think of the country, I think of rolling hills with verdant shaggy trees and grass, cows grazing lazily while a young boy and girl have a picnic in a pastoral paradise. This was not the country. Exchange all of what I just said with poisonous snakes, poisonous lizards, poisonous spiders, poisonous cacti (seriously – there was jumping cactus…cactus that literally jumps and impales you if you even walk near it. Then, it’s like trying to get gum off of you. Really painful, spiked gum. When you pull it out of your arm, it attaches painfully to your hand. When you pull it from your hand, it grasps onto your other hand. It’s the “Stage 5 Clinger” of cacti.) Oh, and dirt. Lots of dirt. Basically, my family loved me enough to move me into a deathtrap. And you think you need to cover the electrical sockets… Ha! I see your electrical sockets and raise you rattlesnakes, gila monsters, and cacti that stalks and attacks you. The perfect place to raise a little girl…

There was one wonderful thing about living in this hazardous and  barbaric land… we could have animals! Like REAL animals. Horses, goats, chickens… Hell, we even got some geese at one point (those fuckers are ferocious, so another thing to add to my list of things that will kill you in my childhood yard). But, before we were able to obtain these creatures for ourselves, the neighbor’s sheep would have to do.

Our house was on top of a large hill, then, the spiky, biting land dipped down into a sandy wash (oh, we had flash floods too), then, at the bottom of the hill, across the wash, and through some rusty barbed wire (of course), there was a patch of cleared flat land with pens of sheep. Then, the land swooped back up to the other hill where our neighbor’s blue house sat. Since I was displaced and in one of the seven layers of Hell, my mom asked the neighbors if I could play with their sheep because I was such an animal person. If it had fur, or wool – as it turned out, it was my friend. Plus, it would give me something to do besides complain to her that we lived in Vail. The neighbors said that I could go down and play with the sheep anytime I wanted, and I took them up on that offer. The hill leading down to the wash was steep and full of prickly everything (once again, great parenting at work) so I had to slide and scoot down the hill on my butt, maneuvering around the murderous desert landscape and the murderous desert creatures that lived within it. However, I found my way down the hill, through the wash, between the barbed wire, and lo and behold! Sheep! The only time I had ever seen sheep, they were half dead at morbid  little petting zoos, so this was exciting – and well worth the treacherous trip. At first they were afraid of me and wouldn’t let me touch them, but after awhile, they got used to me popping out of the thorny bushes to come and see them. Not only could I pet them and play with them, but I finally got my damn pastoral when one curled up in my lap. Finally, something a nine year old girl could do to entertain herself, and finally, something soft in the middle of an environment full of sharpness.

After a few months, I had worn a perfect little dirt trail with my butt down the hill. Each time I came back with less cuts, scratches, or pieces of the desert stuck in me. I was getting the hang of this Vail living and I had the sheep to thank for that. They were my only soft happy place and I visited them every day.

Then, on a day like any other day, I scooted down my butt-made path, excited as all get out to see my woolly friends, crossed the wash, executed the perfect ninja moves through the barbed wire, popped out of the bushes and EVERY SINGLE SHEEP had been slaughtered. And by “slaughtered” I mean piles of guts, skinned bodies hanging from the trees still dripping with bright red blood, and their dismembered heads staring at me in a state of agony, the last look on their faces, spread across tables next to the very instruments of their destruction. Bloody knives, hooks, and other metal death devices were strewn about covered in thick, almost syrupy, red and brown liquid. I stood frozen. My nine year old mind buzzed and skipped trying to process what was before me. It was a massacre. I stared in shock at the bodies hanging from the trees, then the pile of guts and skin, the pools and splatters of blood that replaced the spot I used to sit, and then their heads, which were mimicking the same expression I wore on my face. If only I could have been lucky enough, like whiny Clarice, to hear the “lambs” screaming, at least I would have known NOT TO GO DOWN THERE. A little heads up, no pun intended, would have been nice and saved me the horror of seeing my once playful friends, torn apart and covered in flies, like a Chinese market. (No, I have never been to a Chinese market, but I have seen them on the “Amazing Race” so I’m an expert.)

Once I could move again, I screamed, enough for all of my fallen soldiers, and scrambled back up the hill, crying, catching my arms and legs on every brutal thorn. By the time I reached the top of our hill, I stood outside covered in my own blood from scrapes and scratches from the monstrous plant life I was used to carefully avoiding, bloody hands from tearing into the hillside to climb faster, and wet dirt that had stuck to my tears and streaked down my face. If anything, I looked like I had barely escaped the massacre and this tyrannical murderous beast had been hot on my heels. My mom heard me first, hysterical and gasping, and when she ran out and saw the state I was in, grabbed me up and kept asking me what happened… my mouth unable to form words, just fish-like gasps as they’re pulled from the water. She cleaned me up, and finally, I was able to tell her what happened. She gawked at me, and I could just tell she was thinking, This is going to fuck my kid up forever. We had such high hopes… except I was nine, so I just knew she was looking at me like I was the scary one mixed with questioning. Like she was trying to look inside my mind to answer the question: Is this going to make my child a serial killer?

It turned out that the neighbors had completely forgotten that I was a daily visitor because the sheep were down the hill from their house. They had no idea the bloody scene they created was to be seen by a little girl and possibly, put her in an institution. But, I wasn’t put into an institution. Shortly after, we got animals of our own that I could visit any time and know I wasn’t going to walk into puddles of their blood. Well, for the most part, at any rate… but that’s another story. At least I had the comfort of knowing that our animals weren’t food, and that was good enough for me.

Now, the question that Hannibal asked Clarice: “You still wake up sometimes, don’t you? You wake up in the dark and hear the screaming of the lambs.” Well, the answer is no. I’ve never had the luxury of hearing the lambs scream, Clarice. So stop bitching about that one lamb you tried to run away with, but they killed it anyway. At least you knew. And who tries to go running holding a freaking lamb? They’re big and they really don’t like being picked up. And the hooves are all kicky. If you knew and loved these lambs so much, Clarice, you would have known this and you would have just stayed in your room and covered your head with a pillow. As you can see, my story is way more upsetting than the one life changing moment Clarice experienced which showed her that the world was cruel and continued to haunt her… even more so than her father getting shot and killed by a burglar. By Silence of the Lambs rules, I experienced something more damaging than having the one person I loved most in the world be gunned down. And to think…there’s a second Silence of the Lambs moment to come! So, when I share this story and people look at me with that same look my mother gave me that day, that mixture of suspicion and “is everything okay in there?Well, Clarice - Have the Lambs Stopped Screaming?“, I can assure you, that it is.  I do have some bloody dreams and crazy nightmares, but those could really be linked to a number of things in my life. On the whole, I’m fine, and it’s actually kind of funny looking back at it because it’s just so ridiculous and outrageous. To answer your question: No, Dr. Lecter, the lambs aren’t screaming. But don’t piss me off, just to be safe…

By:  Jennifer Kinkade

Squirrels: Fluffy Frolickers and Part-Time Water Skiers, or Nature’s Most Adorable Terrorists?

My story starts about a month ago when I moved from Tucson, AZ to the thriving metropolis that is Chicago! Okay, well not really Chicago, Chicago… but a small suburb south of Chicago called Oak Lawn, which, let’s just be real here, is exactly like Tucson except the trees are green and instead of landscaping with dirt and well-placed rocks, there’s grass. It should really just be Tucson, IL as                                                                                   a matter of fact. Big Move there, Jennifer.

At least I’m near Chicago and I came here to start my big city life doing…something. I haven’t quite nailed that something down yet but let’s just say I have a lotta stokes in the fire. Yup. Things are gonna happen! Any minute now… seriously. Seriously! Come on, phone… ring dammit! I’m ready to be a cosmopolitan girl living fast in the city, not sitting in a Corner Bakery because they have free WiFi.

Alright, I’m going a bit stir crazy here in bizarro Tucson. Instead of living the big life,  I have seen ALL of TV. Oh yeah… On Demand, baby! I have seen shows I didn’t even know existed. I have seen shows that shouldn’t exist. One minute, I’m thinking, Who on earth is going to watch a show about beards? This is insane! Oh wait… I’m watching a show about beards. Then I die a little more inside.

My big toenail fell off today and it makes perfect sense. Parts of my body are literally jumping ship, clearly in search for a more adventurous life. I wish it luck in it’s journey. Needless to say I’m going a bit nuts with all this energy devoted solely to changing the channel and watching parts of my body shrivel up and die.

I’m not the only thing going stir crazy in Oak Lawn, IL, however. There is an omnipresent population of giant, fluffy, adorable squirrels. I have yet to see a single pigeon… but the squirrels are EVERYWHERE. They have been a great source of entertainment for me since one of my other big and impressive activities is sitting on the porch. Yeah, I read out there, talk on the phone sometimes, or just kind of sit there staring into the abyss wondering what the Hell I’m doing. Jealous? Thought so. But at least there are dozens of giant, frolicking squirrels to watch. They run all over the lawns, up the trees, down the trees, and oh my god I’m like a sad old man feeding birds at the park. Well, I’ll admit that I enjoyed watching those creatures flit and flirt about since we only have creatures that would eat those creatures in Tucson. I’ve seen a squirrel or two there, but they were usually in the air being carried away by a giant hawk. Squirrel  watching was, being the fluffy creature lover that I am, awesome.

Well, it was awesome. The one thing I enjoyed most while in the midst of a pre-midlife crisis, was ripped brutally from my remote control calloused hands. One squirrel, in particular, went from being an adorable, playful animal to nature’s most dangerous terrorist. He was the Ted Bundy of squirrels: way too cute to be dangerous until you end up strangled in the woods somewhere.

Let me just start by saying that I have witnesses. This is going to sound so far-fetched, especially with my declining mental stability, but I assure you that there is absolutely NO exaggeration in what is to follow. It is a harrowing story of peaceful, nature loving girl, sitting on the front porch talking to her mom who’s hundreds of miles away, innocently watching the resident squirrels do their squirrel things. Then, shit got real. One minute, this gorgeous Snow White-like girl (okay, it’s me), used to having animals trust and flock to her baring gifts of twigs and sweet songs, was in the process of saying to her mother, “Awww… there’s this squirrel right in front of me…” (most likely expecting it to present her with a shiny nut it had picked out specially for her) when it then turned to blood curdling screaming into the phone, and to the neighborhood, “It’s coming after me!!!! AHHHHHHH!” Yes, one of nature’s tiny minions bore it’s teeth, crouched like a guard dog, grunted, furrowed it’s brow, twitched it’s tail, and sprang towards me while I stood screaming in the driveway. My mom, on the other end of the phone, upon hearing her daughter screaming, started screaming herself, “What’s happening? What’s going on?!” most likely thinking I was being hunted down by an axe-wielding madman. My reply? “The squirrel is chasing me! The squirrel is chasing me!” My mom hung up.

Now, I had the attention of the neighbors as they watched some new girl run screaming down the street, through their front yards, and around their trees, being chased by a psychotic squirrel. And that thing would NOT give up! It was even crouching in the entrance way to the house, hell-bent on me not getting to safety. Thanks to my countless hours of television watching, I got an idea from some sports show about football or other ball-related sport. I faked left, then dodged to the right and ran like hell. And it worked! I was able to finally get to the front door and get inside with that demon squirrel still chasing me. When I slammed the door behind me, there was “thump” on the other side…

Ha! Stupid squirrel… who’s the one that looks dumb now? Certainly not the strange girl running and screaming to the neighborhood to stay in their houses, lock their doors! There’s a crazy squirrel out here! Yeah, I totally Atticus Finched that situation. I basically saved the neighbors’ lives from the number one al-Qaeda of squirrels. You’re welcome, Oak Lawn.

As it turns out the squirrel, like Robert Dinero in Cape Fear (he’s under the car!), kept trying to come after me even though I was in the house. I could still hear it’s tiny frightening grunts and one of my neighbors who came outside when I screamed “Stay inside!” saw the possessed creature climbing the walls to try to get in through the windows.The neighbor started laughing, and like The Terminator, the squirrel froze, turned it’s head, and with the fires of hell in his eyes dashed towards the neighbor, who was then chased all throughout his backyard until he could get to the door. I had said, “Stay inside! There’s a crazy squirrel out here!” but, like idiot people do when they hear gun shots (me included), he ran outside to see what was going on. He found out.

The call to Animal Control was an interesting one. I have never had to repeat myself so many times and the hysterical laughter coming from the other end was pissing me off. This is serious! There is a rabid squirrel out there with a taste for human blood and vengeance in it’s heart! This is NO laughing matter, sir! But, the laughter continued when he was finally able to catch enough breath to tell me that the squirrel didn’t have rabies, it was just horny. Apparently squirrels get aggressive when they have to bust a nut, so to speak. So, yeah… I was chased around the neighborhood (and consequently met most of my neighbors for the first time) by a sex-crazed squirrel who didn’t understand that no means no.

Later, the forever shirtless elderly man in the apartment next door with giant white orthopedic shoes, patchy skin (he has a skin disease and  he can’t feel hot or cold – hence the anti-shirt policy), and a voice like Daffy Duck due to some throat affliction, stood underneath my window and was trying to say something that I couldn’t quite make out… it was as if his words were being filtered through a shirtless kazoo, but I could make out the word “squirrel” and I was glad to have another witness. Turns out, that the same psycho sex maniac squirrel tried to rape one of his giant orthopedic shoes, so he sprayed it with the hose until it drown. Yes, the squirrel raped his shoe, then proceeded to just sit there getting sprayed in the face by a garden hose until it drown….from a hose…held by the shirtless orthopedic helium-voiced wonder. He wanted me to come and “identify” it, so I went over and there it was: a dead, wet squirrel. Our saga had come to a sad and soggy end. Well, I suppose it was better than hanging sex-offender notifications throughout the neighborhood with a picture of a squirrel on them.

This is what I moved half-way across the country for… What I left everything behind for! Big city adventures, huh? You’re empathizing with that toenail I lost this morning, aren’t you? Well, it’s big exciting journey probably won’t include being stalked and chased by a rapist Taliban squirrel. And I would have NEVER gotten that experience if I was actually living the dream in the city of Chicago…where I wanted to move in the first place. Nope. I’d just have some thriving career in a big, thriving city, with diverse and opulent nightlife, culture, options of amazing things to do every single night of the week – so many, in fact, that I would have a hard time choosing which activity in which to partake. I would be all blase by now, used to the banquet of cool shit to do. I’d have an apartment close to the transit lines and be able hop on and off with careless abandon, always ending up in place where something super awesome was taking place. I’d start dressing like Katniss Everdeen so I could fit in with the big city hipsters instead of wearing my ten year old University of Arizona hoodie every single day. I’d actually have to put on pants.

So, you see… things are really going great here, in Oak Lawn, Illinois. Really. No, really… I’m doing awe-some! Super!I honestly don’t want to burst into tears just because I can tell you exactly how to judge a bearding competition. You know what? I am also really damn proud of myself for busting out my sweet moves to fake out a squirrel who had a giant hard-on for me. I couldn’t have done that in Chicago, no sir! I have learned some valuable life lessons in Oak Lawn that I could never have learned in Chicago: that I’m fast and have the athletic prowess to outrun a crazed squirrel, that there IS such a thing as infamy within a one block radius, that I can make a good first impression by saving the neighborhood and alerting them to a fuzzy sexual predator, that one can live with every known (and probably unknown) disease as long as you never wear a shirt and have magical orthopedic shoes that can take a raping, and that some squirrels will let you spray them in the face with a hose. However, the most important lesson that I’ve learned, is that throughout all of this, no matter how many TV shows I can pack into a single sitting, no matter how many consecutive days I can wear the same clothes and no one notices, or how many times I blow my new rape whistle when I see a squirrel… I can still keep my dignity.

RIP Nutty: May you rape and water ski freely in heaven.


By:  Jennifer Kinkaid