Q's Views

Death to squirrels. Hunker down there soldier or you'll take one in the skull. As we speak here, so to speak, a commando unit of squirrels is continuing to pelt my home and my car with acorns.
Oh, you probably think like that wise guy up the street, Ike Newton. What goes up must come down, he says and then lays out some story about rotation and gravity. Gravity, smavity, I says, them little grey b*st*rds are throwing nuts at my house. Then ol' Ike says mighty oaks from little acorns grow and walks away. Oaks come from storks, I yell, just like all living things. Not so damn sure where storks come from though.
I hear 'em up there chattering. Rats with fancy hair dos is all they are. All night long; all day long. I fire BBs in there general direction but flip me tiny little fingers. They've started wearing little Kevolar vests too. Buck-toothed little death machines are what they are. Take an acorn to the head folks and you'll understand what a genius Chicken Little was. Meanwhile they chatter and hurl their little missiles at my house. I think I need a tank.
Until next time,
Sincerely
General Paranoia