Stocky the Squirrel longed to find his father, but was only just fodder for da fadda. As old and sodden as Methuselah, yet better kempt, he was all verclempt as well as unkempt. For there in the dumps of Manhattan, just below the Seine River, lain Mrs D. Along with John gadda da vida, with a Bible thumping round their necks.
And so it was, that Stocky began watching the boob tube, whilst in his tube socks, knitted by Minnieapolis. But, where was mother Soo?? Probably Sooviving as per usual. Yet, he had been rejected. He was once, twice, and three times a lady. A Lady in Purple, along with Little Boy Blue. Pretty in Pink as the day was long. And in his little shwimmers.
Truth be told, Stocky was red faced. And faced with a decision or derision. Take your pick, he reasoned. Stocky was becoming more "real" with reasoning at all times these days. Or any other daze. As he stared into the pool called Narcissus, he found his brother, Goldman and Sacks Fifth Avenue Bars. What a mouthful, even for a Squirrel. He began drooling all over his squirrel bib at the very thought of things. Everythings. Cause, well that's life!!
Snoring in the sand, he shifted positions and chose the lavender outfit. Pretty in pink no more. One blue eye and one rotten tail swatting in the wind. The wafting winds of the shards of flatulence.
His mind wandered back to his last psychiatric session, in which he had developed a bout of OCD that was to last 100 years. Kinda like he was at war with himself, he pondered. The psychiatrist, who had over-billed Stocky, was himself nuttier than a fruitcake. Stocky then resolved to look for Mr Goodbar, however, unlike Diane Keaton, he would not be put in stilts.
That kind of thinking was exactly what gave most Squirrels traumatic mood disorder, AKA TMD. Stocky decided to hoist himself up into the nearest stairwell, which was looking back at him, and to board Soul Train.
For Stocky was an inverted leftie, just as BO and JMcC were, making himself a top presidential candidate in the nearest to farthest election materials. He liked to vote absentee, mostly because Squirrels were ineligible to vote. Which in itself was a mark against his otherwise perfect record.
Sure, he'd been in prison, but who the hell hadn't, he reasoned? Reasoning was amongst his talents, he reckoned. Sell THAT to the American people, and he'd be in the money for sure. Barrels and barrels of it lived just under the rainbow.
Stocky had kind of lost all track of the rules, though, so how could he? What a slap in the face!!
He further reasoned, this time with glee. The glee that made Stocky, like Rocky, chatter. Yet, here he was, a United States Veteran of the French Foreign Legion. It was where most Squirrels with a rap sheet such as his went to hide out, whilst serving, well SOME Country. Stocky believed in miracles, and along with that, came a storm.
Just then in the distance he saw the Nut Tree; say didn't that used to be a restaurant off of HWY 80 North by Northwest? Look no further forward, for he had reached his eventual destination of Colorado, where he became high as a kite. Keep on truckin'. Keep on truckin' down.
Stocky just didn't like to be pegged is all. He made his decision there and then, to take a B-12 shot and fly higher and higher. He marched proudly for the State of Rejection as his own MD. That way, there would be no mistaking the diagnosis for THIS particular Squirrel. Stocky found himself to be a picky eater as well. Taco Bell served up those beans, and he liked those, nearly to exclusion. He was developing a gathering gloom of pica.
He was feckless, faithless, fatherless and a child. Faced with his own immortality for the first time, he began to weep. The tears filled his jeep of transportation. Which he had become secretary of such said agency. He was once, twice, three times a Lady. And a Tramp.
He felt that old rumble in the jungle and headed for the toilet. As usual, he arrived in arrears. Stocky didn't believe in paying his child support, so how could he hold down gainful employment?
Stocky left his footprints in the sand of his psychiatrists lawn, just as Cary Grant before him. Who had shat upon the shag carpet whilst doing an experimental LSD roll of quarters.
Elbow to paw, he attempted an old saw, which had, previous to this occasion, stood him up. Anchors aweigh, boyz to men. Anchors don't weigh. Send in your SASE to Stocky the Squirrel, general delivery of the postmistress general. Or the surgeon general. Either way, they'd find him. Stocky the Squirrel was on the run again. DA DA DA DA DA DA!!
Surf City, USA........he'd be declared grand marshal of the Veteran's day parade, and is coming to a town near you. YOU, Mr J Q Publican. Belly up to the bar, Boys. It's your lucky day. And, Stocky was Master of his Fate no more.
Happy Veteran's Day from Stocky the Squirrel!!
As told to Ms Kara this 11th day of..........ah.........let's not lose track now, kids. It's Noviembre, Padre. Dos Equis. Uno, dos, tres, QUATRO!!!
@ Kara Shalee, 2014, all rights reserved, LLC. Patent Pending.