Supporting a friend with the help of a crazed squirrel

It was crazed squirrels, not the police, who drove Thelma and Louise into the Grand Canyon.

Yesterday, I posted “I just found a squirrel in my car” as my Facebook status. I did this as part of a Breast Cancer Awareness movement on social media. Before long, those who weren’t aware of the movement began to leave panicked comments like, “What the @#$% is HAPPENING?!? People are finding squirrels in their cars EVERYWHERE!! Do they want our NUTS?!? Are they RUSSIAN?!? CANADIAN?!? High on ROCKSTAR?!?”

To anyone currently locked in a safe room eating military grade rations after reading thousands of “squirrel” statuses, I apologize. However, it doesn’t mean the squirrel threat isn’t real.

Several years ago while visiting the Grand Canyon, my chance to enjoy one of the world’s greatest natural wonders was marred by an unprovoked squirrel attack. Anyone who’s been there can tell you that the park is completely over run by hordes of crazed, hyperactive squirrels. It’s gotten so bad that the park service installed coin-operated food dispensers, the idea being that tourists could feed the squirrels while remaining blissfully unaware that the pellets were, in effect, simply a diversion meant to save their lives.

The problem is that the squirrels are now SICK of these pellets, which tourists still purchase, but now hurl directly at the squirrels while fleeing back to their cars. In most cases, they never get to see the Grand Canyon at all, choosing instead to escape by turning their windshield wipers on high and dislodging enough squirrels to navigate their way into the nearest Sequoia patch.

(Movie note: Thelma & Louise originally ended with them eluding the police, then tragically plunging into the Grand Canyon in a hail of gun fire, food pellets and flailing squirrels.) Continue reading

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Most men will never have to butcher a cow while wearing high heels

Around here, Sunday mornings are for re-living the past. Not in a Shirley Maclaine past-life kind of way, where we talk about cleaning King Henry’s chamber pots or being a samurai who hated sushi. No, we’re talking about Flashback Sunday, when we dig into the archives and pull random newspaper columns or posts from the distant past, back when the followers of this blog could all fit at our breakfast table. And did each morning before school. (Warning: This week’s Flashback includes strong graphic elements, such as the accompanying image of my actual legs in high heels…)

For men like me who will be participating in this year’s Domestic Violence Awareness “Men’s High Heels Walk,” hitting the disco afterwards is strongly discouraged. Really — don’t even think about it.

In preparation for October’s “Walk in My Heels” event, in which men wear high heels to show support for Domestic Violence Awareness Month, my wife talked me into going with her to a fancy shoe store to look for size-12 heels. As I expected, it wasn’t long before women were falling all over me.

That’s because they were all trying on high heeled shoes, some of which were so towering that a special negotiator had to be called in to talk them down. These women apparently loved high heels so much that, once they discovered they couldn’t afford them, chose to end it all by unstrapping their Stilettos and leaping headfirst into the bargain table. Continue reading