the squirrel from hell...
I never dreamed that slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential
neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect.
I was on Brice Street - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow
traffic. As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from
under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me.
It was a squirrel, and it must have been trying to run across the road when
it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no
time to brake or avoid it -- it was that close.
I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a
squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the
impact.
Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of
themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on
his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his
beady little eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he
screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Banzai!"
or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short
of spectacular...
He shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in
the chest. Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would
have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack.
Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity.
As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans,
this was a bit of cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing
some damage!
Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a
T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet
residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And
losing... I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I
finally managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil
rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I
recoiled from the throw.
That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It
really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the
pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have
headed home. No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary
squirrel. This was not even an ordinary angry squirrel.
This was the EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH!
Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands and, with
the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an
amazing impact, he landed squarely on my BACK and resumed his rather
antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my
left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all.
His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled,
to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one
hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back
unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the
throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one
result. TORQUE. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very
good at it. The engine roared and the front wheel left the pavement.
The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in .. well . I just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in
jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and
roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential
street on one wheel, with a demonic squirrel of death on his back. The man
and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the sudden
acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and
try to get control of the bike.
This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did
not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had
not yet figured out how to release the throttle. my brain was just simply
overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect
against the massive power of the big cruiser.
About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient
attention to this very serious battle (maybe he was an evil mutant NAZI
attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my
full-face helmet with me.
As the faceplate closed part way, he began hissing in my face. I am quite
sure my screaming changed intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel,
however. The RPMs on the Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with
shifting at the moment), so her front end started to drop.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in
jeans, a very raggedly torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring
at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail
sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet. By now, the screams are
probably getting a little hoarse.
Finally I got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled
him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This
time it worked...sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of...so to speak.
Picture a new scene...
You are a cop...
You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and
parked with your windows down to do some paperwork.
Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a
torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove,
moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder, roars
by, and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into
your police car.
I heard screams.
They weren't mine...
I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front
wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a
cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street.
I would have returned to 'fess up (and to get my glove back).
I really would have.
Really...
Except for two things.
First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about
me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol
car were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back,
doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the
car. The cop who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street,
aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car. So, the cops were not
interested in me. They often insist on "letting the professionals handle
it" anyway.
That was one thing.
The other?
Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery
from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back
window, shaking his little fist at me.
That is one dangerous squirrel.
And now he has a patrol car.
A somewhat shredded patrol car...but it was all his.
I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right turn off
of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best
to just buy myself a new pair of gloves...and a whole lot of Band-Aids.
(Stolen from the internet. Author unknown.)
neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect.
I was on Brice Street - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow
traffic. As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from
under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me.
It was a squirrel, and it must have been trying to run across the road when
it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no
time to brake or avoid it -- it was that close.
I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a
squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the
impact.
Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of
themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on
his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his
beady little eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he
screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Banzai!"
or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short
of spectacular...
He shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in
the chest. Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would
have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack.
Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity.
As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans,
this was a bit of cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing
some damage!
Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a
T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet
residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And
losing... I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I
finally managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil
rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I
recoiled from the throw.
That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It
really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the
pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have
headed home. No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary
squirrel. This was not even an ordinary angry squirrel.
This was the EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH!
Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands and, with
the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an
amazing impact, he landed squarely on my BACK and resumed his rather
antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my
left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all.
His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled,
to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one
hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back
unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the
throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one
result. TORQUE. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very
good at it. The engine roared and the front wheel left the pavement.
The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in .. well . I just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in
jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and
roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential
street on one wheel, with a demonic squirrel of death on his back. The man
and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the sudden
acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and
try to get control of the bike.
This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did
not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had
not yet figured out how to release the throttle. my brain was just simply
overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect
against the massive power of the big cruiser.
About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient
attention to this very serious battle (maybe he was an evil mutant NAZI
attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my
full-face helmet with me.
As the faceplate closed part way, he began hissing in my face. I am quite
sure my screaming changed intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel,
however. The RPMs on the Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with
shifting at the moment), so her front end started to drop.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in
jeans, a very raggedly torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring
at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail
sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet. By now, the screams are
probably getting a little hoarse.
Finally I got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled
him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This
time it worked...sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of...so to speak.
Picture a new scene...
You are a cop...
You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and
parked with your windows down to do some paperwork.
Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a
torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove,
moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder, roars
by, and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into
your police car.
I heard screams.
They weren't mine...
I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front
wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a
cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street.
I would have returned to 'fess up (and to get my glove back).
I really would have.
Really...
Except for two things.
First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about
me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol
car were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back,
doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the
car. The cop who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street,
aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car. So, the cops were not
interested in me. They often insist on "letting the professionals handle
it" anyway.
That was one thing.
The other?
Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery
from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back
window, shaking his little fist at me.
That is one dangerous squirrel.
And now he has a patrol car.
A somewhat shredded patrol car...but it was all his.
I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right turn off
of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best
to just buy myself a new pair of gloves...and a whole lot of Band-Aids.
(Stolen from the internet. Author unknown.)
posted by The Editor at
11:25 PM
8 Comments:
There is a moral in that tale somewhere. Something like:
Ferocity maks you seem ten times as big and dangerous as you actually are?
-or-
Those who go about with no intent but their own pleasure and convenience are no match for those who feel threatened?
oh bother! Why can't I just have a chuckle like anybody else instead of taking my forceps and scalpel to everything that is presented?
Hi Greenie,
It was just a stupid thing i saw on a motorcycle newsgroup. From a literary point of view even I would give it one out of ten, but at the time of reading it just somehow reduced me to a prolonged fit of helpless giggling so I put it up here in case it had a similar effect on others.
My next post will take the smile off everyone's face anyhow. Well, at least those who actually bother to think about what I've written, that is.. Fat chance of that...
Heh heh, thought the story a little 'far fetched' meself. On the other hand, there is this story so perhaps the animals are up to something we don't know about, and "moving to the countryside" will not be as safe as previously thought. Mmmm, thinks, must get some stronger bars fer me canary cage.
Sounds like the chimps are ahead of the game in the "reclaim your habitat" stakes. "Go the Chimps!!!" (Deem big Mexican wave included)
Extra bars on your cage? Forget it. starving gangs of marauders will go through your place in no time flat. Unless you've got a machine gun and lots and lots of bullets. But it's illegal to have the means to defend yourself when law and order disintegrate. then again, when law and order disintegrate, everyone who can will take up arms, so it won't look too pretty. That's why I say find "an out of the way place". Cos if they can find you, you're going to be done over.
errrmmm, I actually meant the cage for my canaries, in case they go 'feral' .. but will keep your advice about the other stuff in mind as well. cheers.
Ohh... I thought you were calling your house a canary cage. I thought you were being cute.
I only stumbled across your blog tonight and I thought that story was brilliant! I knew you couldn't have written it since I can understand it. Your other posts are far too intellectual for my poor tired little brain!
Rosey, my posts too intellectual? Heh. You've just come at a bad time when I've had to use big words to mix it with some wankers. But, yeah, I do get into some serious issues here. Being a lunatic helps.
Glad you liked this story.
Thanks for dropping in and leaving a comment.
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