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In the Ghetto...
Jun. 12th, 2006 07:45 amWhen I was younger, we were relatively poor. Not dirt poor, not middle-class, but pretty-much-scraping-by but-not-so-bad-the-kids-realize-it poor. We didn't get "new" things very often--and we didn't need to, we made our own toys. Cardboard boxes became forts, dad's old gutted army jeep became a real-live play car. The tornado-wrecked silo & cow barn (and lately, junkyard) became our own personal obstacle course, "house", and treasure trove.
However, we did NOT have to resort to playing with dead squirrels.
That's right. Playing with dead squirrels. Derrick, my sister and I were taking a nice drive around our neighborhood (kinda ghetto) on Saturday when we saw a group of children (aged 9-12 maybe? I'm bad at guessing ages) throwing something at each other. I turned to Derrick: Is that a dead squirrel? Oh my god, that's a dead squirrel. *I start giggling* They're playing dodge-the-dead-squirrel in the median of the parkway.
Obviously ignoring the cardinal rule of playing with dead animals: If you don't see HOW it died, don't TOUCH it.
I thought that![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
llythefaerye would appreciate this, considering her ongoing battle to, "Keep the fucking squirrels off her balcony." (Which would be much more entertaining if they didn't seem to be winning.) Come to think of it, this dead squirrel was probably one of her squirrels. It died of small internal explosions following the ingestion of large quantities of pepper spray/pellets that it wasn't really supposed to like to eat... but apparently thinks is gourmet.
Edit: Additionally, upon re-describing the absolute ghettoness of the situation to Derrick, I kept saying, "I can't believe we saw dead children playing with squirrels." (Instead of children [live] playing with dead squirrels...which got me thinking about writing a story of some such...but then I started reading A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore, which promptly featured a whole race of squirrel people who dressed in 18th century costumes and stole things--and I decided that there are already far too many squirrel-related things in the world.) *deep breath*
However, we did NOT have to resort to playing with dead squirrels.
That's right. Playing with dead squirrels. Derrick, my sister and I were taking a nice drive around our neighborhood (kinda ghetto) on Saturday when we saw a group of children (aged 9-12 maybe? I'm bad at guessing ages) throwing something at each other. I turned to Derrick: Is that a dead squirrel? Oh my god, that's a dead squirrel. *I start giggling* They're playing dodge-the-dead-squirrel in the median of the parkway.
Obviously ignoring the cardinal rule of playing with dead animals: If you don't see HOW it died, don't TOUCH it.
I thought that
llythefaerye would appreciate this, considering her ongoing battle to, "Keep the fucking squirrels off her balcony." (Which would be much more entertaining if they didn't seem to be winning.) Come to think of it, this dead squirrel was probably one of her squirrels. It died of small internal explosions following the ingestion of large quantities of pepper spray/pellets that it wasn't really supposed to like to eat... but apparently thinks is gourmet.Edit: Additionally, upon re-describing the absolute ghettoness of the situation to Derrick, I kept saying, "I can't believe we saw dead children playing with squirrels." (Instead of children [live] playing with dead squirrels...which got me thinking about writing a story of some such...but then I started reading A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore, which promptly featured a whole race of squirrel people who dressed in 18th century costumes and stole things--and I decided that there are already far too many squirrel-related things in the world.) *deep breath*
