Don't touch that.
I have to post this before I can finish my Christmas shopping. I've been given a deadline, by the husband who has suddenly become interested in my blog in a confrontational way.
I've been called out on my dead squirrel post and my defenses are up because I have yet to fully develop my thick writer's skin. I'm still under the false assumption that everyone loves my writing and agrees with everything I have to say. It's a nice little wall I've built around myself, although I welcome a brick being kicked out now and then. I can probably take it.
Back to the opposition and the negative review of not just the husbands but others, who shall remain nameless but you will be able to tell who they are because they will most likely not be able to contain their comments on FaceBook. As I sit typing I can see the spot where the dead squirrel is haphazardly covered with leaves on third base, most assuredly decaying in the unseasonably warm temperatures. I imagine, and I have a healthy imagination, it's covered in creepy, crawling creatures that feed on the dead. You can almost see a wave of germs seeping into the air and slowly spreading into the neighborhood. It lays there decomposing waiting for little Bobby and his friends to find it, poke it with a stick and start charging the neighborhood kids a dollar to see the dead thing on third base. If it was still on the street where roadkill belongs, it would be squished beyond recognition and it's remains would have been consumed by the vultures in the sky. That's how nature works with wild animals. I want to be clear, wild animals.
It is a mothers nightmare to think of her child poking dead things with a stick and dear God what if they touch it? Since they learned to reach out with the right and the left, we've told our kids,
"Don't touch that."
The fate of the world rests upon us moms teaching our offspring to leave dead animals untouched. They have dead germs. The kind of germs that spread out of control from little Bobby, the host, to all his little friends and then to their customers who paid a dollar to see the dead thing. These children take the dead germs home to their families and before you know it we have the Zombie Apocalypse, which I have been telling you for years is inevitable. I just didn't think it was going start across the street.
I hope this clears up any confusion on my roadkill theory.
I've been called out on my dead squirrel post and my defenses are up because I have yet to fully develop my thick writer's skin. I'm still under the false assumption that everyone loves my writing and agrees with everything I have to say. It's a nice little wall I've built around myself, although I welcome a brick being kicked out now and then. I can probably take it.
Back to the opposition and the negative review of not just the husbands but others, who shall remain nameless but you will be able to tell who they are because they will most likely not be able to contain their comments on FaceBook. As I sit typing I can see the spot where the dead squirrel is haphazardly covered with leaves on third base, most assuredly decaying in the unseasonably warm temperatures. I imagine, and I have a healthy imagination, it's covered in creepy, crawling creatures that feed on the dead. You can almost see a wave of germs seeping into the air and slowly spreading into the neighborhood. It lays there decomposing waiting for little Bobby and his friends to find it, poke it with a stick and start charging the neighborhood kids a dollar to see the dead thing on third base. If it was still on the street where roadkill belongs, it would be squished beyond recognition and it's remains would have been consumed by the vultures in the sky. That's how nature works with wild animals. I want to be clear, wild animals.
It is a mothers nightmare to think of her child poking dead things with a stick and dear God what if they touch it? Since they learned to reach out with the right and the left, we've told our kids,
"Don't touch that."
The fate of the world rests upon us moms teaching our offspring to leave dead animals untouched. They have dead germs. The kind of germs that spread out of control from little Bobby, the host, to all his little friends and then to their customers who paid a dollar to see the dead thing. These children take the dead germs home to their families and before you know it we have the Zombie Apocalypse, which I have been telling you for years is inevitable. I just didn't think it was going start across the street.
I hope this clears up any confusion on my roadkill theory.
