theblindwoodchuck.com

One Pill makes you Larger, and One Pill makes you Small . . .*

The woodchuck laughed and spread her cards on the flat rock. “Full house!” she crowed, slapping down two sevens and three threes. She started to gather up the final pot, which included lettuces, small bugs and her signature shades.

“Wait!” cried one rabbit. “Is this something?” There was a flurry of activity as the bunnies murmured and consulted and then one by one laid down four threes. “Four of a kind!” they shouted in unison.

“You cannot play as a fluffle!” pointed out the woodchuck. “Only one hand per hare!”

But Flopsy, Mopsy and their cousin Pre-Flop knew they were faster than the chubby groundhog and the rabbits scattered, shrieking with laughter and grabbing the pot. She knew they were cheating—she just couldn’t figure out how. There were so many of them that it was confusing as to whose cards belonged to which rabbit.

“We can’t play this weekend!” they shouted back as they hopped in different directions. “It’s the Big Show on Sunday—our favorite day of the year!”

“You are not the Easter Bunny!” screamed the woodchuck, throwing the cards as far as she could. “You are plain brown rabbits! Give me back my sunglasses!”

The woodchuck stood by her insult. She had been digging up tulip bulbs near the mall a few days ago when the real Easter Bunny walked toward the building. This rabbit was seven feet tall with long sleek ears that stood as straight as a meerkat watching for hawks. The satiny pink inner texture of his white hearing appendages made her want to run her paw up and down them and caused her to blush. A halo of sun light surrounded the holiday rabbit as he walked in unassisted on hind legs, his dexterous paws casually holding a cigarette. He was also wearing a pale blue vest with yellow rick rack edging. None of those damn cheating hares had a waistcoat, she was quite sure of that.

Shirley had been observing the card game and shook her head at her cousin’s outrage. “Every year you lose to the bunnies—why don’t you stop gambling and lean into the spirit of the holiday?”

Shirley had recently started exploring her spiritual side while eating her way through a book of children’s bible stories. Half the pages had been missing when she started, so she added her own interpretations. “For example: did you know the three days before Easter—Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday—are known as the Triduum? I believe that comes from the opening notes of when the Netflix logo first appears just before they show Ben-Hur.”

“What does that have to do with those stupid rabbits?” muttered the woodchuck, now realizing the winning hand they played had meant there were seven threes in the deck.

“Spring is the season of renewal; of budding and flowering and being born, so rabbits are the symbol of fertility. Because they hump like . . . well, rabbits.”

The mention of those hideous hares having an orgy made her think of the Easter Bunny’s long pink inner ears, and she had to stick her head in the creek for a moment.

“Important groundhog traditions come from this celebration!” Shirley continued. “When the bear comes out of his tomb on Easter morning, if he sees his shadow there will be six more weeks of winter. But if he doesn’t, then spring is here and soon we’ll all be humping like. . . well, rabbits.”

The woodchuck was pretty sure there wasn’t a bear involved in Easter (they would later discover the page discussing the Resurrection had been ripped in half and the term bear probably was the first half of either bearded dragon or bearded Jesus). But she let it go because she realized the fleeing, cheating rabbits had left a trail of chocolate covered raisins, and those were her favorite treat. She gathered them up to add to her Easter basket.

*And the ones that mother gives you, don’t do anything at all.

Because the last 90 days have felt like we are all together on a bad hallucinogenic trip, please enjoy this little story about woodchucks and rabbits and don’t think about the weasel or muskrat as they sell the branding rights of the White House Egg Hunt to corporate sponsors. Happy Easter!

The March into April

“Stop doing that!” shouted Shirley, slapping her paw and sending the phone flying.

The blind woodchuck had just reposted a scary warning about Facebook sucking your soul out through the speaker that seemed legit to her, and she really wanted everyone else to know about it.

“It’s not true,” screamed her cousin. “You never check anything, and you keep spreading false information. Dragonflies are not descended from dragons; hoary marmots do not charge for sex!” Shirley stomped off, adding “idiot” under her breath.

The woodchuck retreated to her burrow, sulking. Shirley was always nagging her to get involved, but when she shared valuable information, she got yelled at. She had just read something about the zuckerbug turning into a poodle and her paw itched to share it with the web of connected tunnels, but she couldn’t find her phone.

Shirley poked her head upside down in the tunnel entrance and the phone dropped in with a thunk. “Sorry; didn’t mean to yell,” she mumbled. “I’m feeling very stressed right now. Will you help me make some signs for the big march this weekend?”

The woodchuck loved making posters. She was known for her bubble letters; her stubby taloned paws turned into nimble spider monkey fingers when she held a Sharpie. She shook her head no and turned her back on Shirley. She was still hurt from her cousin’s rant; also, she didn’t want to admit that yesterday she had left the tops off her markers and the lovely scent that had filled her burrow made her giggle for seventeen minutes and then pass out. Her precious tools were now as useless as dried pussy willows.

But Shirley knew her well, and she held out a package of fruit scented markers with only the strawberry one missing. “Found these behind a Staples,” she said slyly. She also had some broken-down Amazon boxes with an inside virgin surface just begging for a pithy saying.

The woodchuck knew her resistance was futile, even though they were supposed to be marching as the resistance. She had a flash of creative genius as she envisioned “Paws Off!”— huge bubble letters drawn with a strong boysenberry outline filled in with kiwi green.

She uncapped the yellow marker and inhaled; staying mad at Shirley was difficult while the aroma of chemically altered lemons filled the burrow. It was as if they were lying in an Italian orchard sipping a limoncello. She would use her persuasive bubble letter skills to save democracy.

Besides, she really wanted to talk to someone about those hoary marmots—she was sure they were prostitutes.

• • •

The blind woodchuck and Shirley are all in for the big “Hands Off” March this Saturday, April 5. During their vaguely hallucinogenic poster making session, they envisioned thousands of animals (and people) walking arm in arm in protest against what the weasel’s administration has done to this country. Fill the streets and take back the forests! Check this link to find a location near you—there are protests happening in every meadow and state.

Don’t forget your signs! Mine says “The Muskrat is a hoary marmot!”

No comas Taco Bell

The woodchuck smoothed out the carefully preserved catalpa leaf and placed it on the sunny rock. The tree lost its leaves in one big clump in the fall and some of them were as big as beavers; after they dried and shriveled, they looked like sleeping rats. The woodchuck was often startled when she went up to talk to one of them and it turned out to be mulch.

Spread out on her favorite rock, though, it made a perfect tablecloth. The day was warm and sunny for the end of February and since she kept waking up from hibernation screaming with anxiety, she figured she may as well have a picnic. She had saved a tidily wrapped little surprise since the end of summer and now it would be her lunch.

As she lifted the slightly stale bean burrito to her mouth, salivating at the thought of the delicious cheese, refried beans and sour cream about to coat her taste buds, it was suddenly slapped out her paw with a howling “STOP!”

Shirley stood over her, quivering with indignation as she pointed the burrito at the woodchuck. “Are you kidding me?” she screamed at her cousin. “We talked about this! We are boycotting Taco Bell because they are huge contributors to the campaigns of the very animals who are trying to destroy our forest and democracy!”

The woodchuck watched in horror as Shirley flung the burrito as far as she could, which was only about seven inches because her front paws were quite short.

“I didn’t buy it,” protested the woodchuck. “I found it behind the dumpster next to the Taco Bell. I don’t think that should count–I’m not supporting them; I’m helping with the problem of food waste!”

Shirley seemed temporarily stumped by this statement–it was a loophole she hadn’t anticipated. “I think you’re being disingenuous; it’s the intent behind the boycott that matters. If you care enough about trying to stop the weasel and the muskrat from destroying everything, then you have to be willing to do whatever it takes, no matter how insignificant it seems.”

The woodchuck didn’t know what disingenuous meant but she would never admit that to her cousin. “I am a true supporter! I emptied all the stuffing out of my WalMart bag quilt and threw it away.” She did not mention that her long toenails had ripped a jagged tear in the plastic and that her burrow was now a snow globe of floating feathers.

“I know you’re trying,” sighed Shirley. “We’re all trying. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough, but every little bit helps, I suppose. Are you ready for the big economic blackout tomorrow?”

“Ready!” shouted the woodchuck, although she was surprised to find out it was finally February 28. This had been the longest month in the history of the world. “I will not spend any money on anything and we will take down the large corporations that depend upon our dollars to buy yachts!”

Shirley seemed pleased with the response and hugged her, neither of them mentioning that they were woodchucks and had no money or opposable thumbs to use credit cards. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved as she left and then thrust a tiny paw in the air. “Cancel your subscription to WaPo! Fuck Jeff Bezos!”

The woodchuck had no idea who Jeff Bezos was, but she nodded enthusiastically. As soon as Shirley was out of sight, she ate the rest of the burrito. It could have used a little more sour cream.

Here is info about the economic blackout, which is on Friday, February 28. So if you need cat food, get it today.

I was very sad to find out that Taco Bell has a high percentage of donations to Republican candidates. RIP, my delicious Caliente Cantina Chicken Quesadilla!

We Are All Florida Now

She glided through the turquoise water as if born with gills, her sleek fins covered in green and gold paillettes that reflected the admiration of the fish who watched her swim. What had once been a furry haunch was now a tail meant for speed; it whipped back and forth and pushed her through the water as silent and deadly as a barracuda. Her top half was encased in two scalloped shells tied together to create a fetching bra, and while she wasn’t exactly Ariel, she could certainly pass as a mermaid at Weeki Watchee Springs*.

She was wrenched from her sea fantasy by the realization that she couldn’t actually breathe underwater and sat up in her burrow, gasping. Her cousin Shirley was standing over her, having just thrown a cup of water in her face. “What the hell did you do that for?” screamed the woodchuck, realizing that her sequined mermaid tail now ended in two dirty paws.

“You were choking in your sleep and I had to wake you up,” pointed out Shirley. “I saved your life! You really should use that CPAP machine.”

“It’s so cold,” the woodchuck whined, now damp and shivering. “I should be deep in hibernation, but my anxiety keeps waking me up. I want to be somewhere warm!’

“Maybe we should move south,” mused Shirley, as she trod on a frozen lump. “Damn, what did I step on?”

“Be careful, that’s Steve. Look, you broke off his tail! Steve! Wake up!”

A mess of iguanas had wandered into the meadow at the end of the summer, tired of politics and fearful of immigration rumors. Originally from Mexico, they had lived in Florida for hundreds of years but that didn’t seem to stop anyone from trying to deport them. They loved the intense heat of the midwestern sun in their new home and could frequently be found sunning themselves on rocks.

The woodchuck adored the iguanas. She thought they were alligators when they first arrived, but soon discovered they were herbivores and not interested in eating her. They were big card players, and the woodchuck had spent many happy hours winning all their insects and leaves. Her favorite part was when they tried to bluff and did not seem to realize their tell was when they turned bright blue. Shirley insisted that wasn’t possible because they were iguanas, not chameleons, but the pile of dried cicadas the woodchuck had won disproved that theory.

Unfortunately, the lizards had not realized what the geographical difference in the climate would eventually bring. The frozen bodies of iguanas were strewn about the floor of the burrow as the temperatures dropped and so did they.

“Don’t worry, they’re not dead, just a little stiff,” the woodchuck reassured her cousin. “Why are you in here?”

“I think we should have a party! Let’s celebrate Groundhog Day and the fact that you don’t have to go to Punxsutawney now because you’re retired!”

The woodchuck could think of several reasons why she hated this idea, but apparently Shirley had already invited everyone in the meadow and animals began pouring into her burrow. As the tunnels filled with the hot breath of furry rodents, the temperature climbed and the iguanas stirred. The dancing started when one of her cousins dragged an old boombox he had found at the dump into the burrow, and the CD stuck inside blasted out the opening brass of the Miami Sound machine. “Come on, shake your body baby do the conga!” they screamed along with Gloria. An otter was keeping the beat on the shell of a turtle that had wandered in as the skunks and raccoons serpentined in and out of the tunnels in a conga line. The song stopped abruptly at “let your body feel the . . .” and then started over, a continuous loop of never-ending bongos. The party raged on, as the opossums shared some fun mushrooms they had found and the rats kept holding up the beaver’s tails to look like they had Micky Mouse ears. The iguanas shouted “ratoncito mickey!” and the revelers erupted in cheers.

The woodchuck watched, not sure if she could summon the energy to join in with this manic crowd. Outside a dumpster fire raged that would soon spread to the meadow, scorching the dry grasses and causing the trees to erupt into tikki torches. A Musky odor seemed to float over the fields like a warning and the air felt charged, as if a hurricane was forming in the Gulf of Meximerica or whatever the weasel was calling it now. The world was terrifying; was it really a good idea to dance and party in denial?

On the plus side, the iguanas had thawed out and Steve’s tail was already growing back. Maybe she could find a few moments of joy with this sweaty, hallucinating group of freaks. A squirrel wearing a French maid outfit passed by with a tray of psilocybin canapés, and the woodchuck popped one in her mouth.

“Ratoncito mickey!” she giggled and merged into the congo line.

• • • • •

*I have no plans to visit Florida soon, as I hate humidity and get sick on roller coasters. Also it feels like I will never sleep again as I keep waking up in despair,
but one day I would love to see the mermaids of https://weekiwachee.com/park-attractions/.

As long as I don’t have to go to Florida to see them.

A Holly, Jolly Pranksgiving

Twinkling lights were strung from end to end of the burrow, creating an electric grid effect that caused the woodland animals to shriek with joy as they jumped over and climbed through the strings of tiny lasers. In one area, there was a piney-fragrant fur tree that a friendly beaver had gnawed down and then dropped into the tunnel, laughing about how it was “going to be a lot harder to get it out than in!” The sweet voices of young rodents rang out as they joined in perfect harmony to warble A Holly Jolly Christmas for the twenty-ninth time.

The woodchuck woke up screaming, her paws clutched to either side of her face like a furry Macauley Culkin. The burrow was dark and silent. The burned-out Christmas lights she had thrown over some twigs had fallen and become a hazard; she tripped over them every single time she got up to pee.

It had been a nightmare, one so real that the chant of “Hey, Ho, the mistletoe!” ricocheted around her sleep-deprived head and cause her to paw frantically at her ear to get it to stop.

The woodchuck had been in a bad mood for most of her existence, but the past six weeks had been particularly terrible. With the election of the Weasel and the non-election of the Muskrat who seemed to be in charge, every day brought new angst and fear about what they were planning for the forest. Merry, she was not.

She put a paw out to feel her way to the bathroom, when it suddenly sank into the hairy belly of a zombie who screeched in her face, “I AM THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST!” The woodchuck dropped to her knees in terror, something warm and wet running down her haunch, when the booming voice of her cousin Shirley started laughing hysterically. “I got you!,” she shrieked. “You peed on yourself! Hahahhahaha!”

Shirley had been trying to get the nickname Prankenstein trending around the forest since she had started jumping out at others, but it hadn’t stuck. The squirrels had suggested Prank Zappa, which caused them to giggle hysterically and choke on their nuts. There was one duckbilled platypus who kept pushing for Pranklin Shepherd, Inc. but there weren’t enough Sondheim fans around to appreciate it.

“I hate it when you jump out at me!” sobbed the woodchuck, sitting in the spreading puddle of hibernation pee. “You scared me; you never knock before you sneak in, and you are not funny. Your stupid nickname should be Prank Lloyd Wrong!”

Shirley was immediately contrite and apologized profusely; she then climbed out of the burrow to get some vegetation to sop up the moisture. She was gone for so long that the woodchuck assumed she had pranked off to scare the Dickens out of other animals. She was grateful to be alone again, but still churning with anger at her cousin and all the other animals she felt had wronged her that year. Spreading her Walmart bag quilt over the wet spot, she was about to settle back to sleep when a long stick was suddenly shoved down into her burrow. It was followed by Shirley and the beavers and several other animals, including the weird platypus.

“I’m so sorry,” yelled Shirley, who never seemed to say anything at a normal volume. “I know you’re mad at me, so I brought you a Festivus pole! You can Air Your Grievances at all of us, because nothing makes you happier than complaining.”

The woodchuck tried to find something wrong with that statement, but nothing came to mind. Her cousin knew her well. “I got a lot of problems with you animals . . .” she started.

For twenty glorious minutes, she ranted about the beavers chewing with their mouths open. She shouted at the platypus, “Are you a duck? Are you a beaver? Make up your mind!”

She pointed at Shirley. “And you . . . your jokes are not funny. Stop punking me. You are not Prank Costanza!” She paused for a breath and to appreciate how good her pun had been. She felt lighter than she had in weeks.

Taking advantage of the momentary pause, the crowd cheered and hurriedly moved on; seeing the woodchuck in a good mood was a Festivus miracle. They shared a delicious meal of berries and freeze-dried cicadas, with the squirrels chipping in some pre-chewed acorns. They were happy the rant was over before the woodchuck had got to them.

After too much eating and celebrating, it was time for the Feats of Strengths. The woodchuck and her cousin and all the beavers and squirrels participated, but the duckbilled platypus smoked everyone. Whatever combo it was, it was really strong.

At the end of the evening, the woodchuck waved goodnight to everyone and settled back in her cozy burrow, full of yummy food and the glow of being with good, if flawed, friends. It was time for a nice long sleep, and hopefully when she woke up in the spring, the weasel and the muskrat would have eaten each other and no one would be singing A Holly Jolly Christmas. God, she hated that song.

I hope your holidays are lovely and contain as much complaining as is necessary to get you through the coming weeks. It’s going to be a long, dark winter and we are all going to have to share our nuts to stay sane. Whether you are celebrating Festivus or bringing Prankincense to a manger, I hope it is as warm and cozy as a Walmart bag full of duck feathers!

Reality Bites

The woodchuck sat terrified in her burrow. Only her snout and beady black eyes were visible as she sank deeper into the plastic bag stuffed with random bird feathers that was the warmest thing she owned. Outside, above her, a fire raged. It was fueled, not by flames, but by anger and hate and animals who seemed to be voting against their own interests; she’d heard all the chickens had bonded together to elect the weasel. Why you would vote for the beast that regularly took out entire coops was beyond her, but one of them had told her “they just didn’t know what the weasel’s opponent stood for.”

The woodchuck did not engage with fowl because she knew you can’t change people’s mind by arguing with them, although it never stopped her cousin from trying. Shirley was on her way over to the woodchuck’s burrow, her own plastic bag packed with essentials. She had a plan; they would cross the border to the next meadow to escape whatever terrible things the weasel had in mind for their own beloved field.

The woodchuck knew people saw her as a narcissistic cynic; always looking out for herself and not concerned for the other animals. But they didn’t know about her concealed vein of naivete and optimism. She had never really believed the weasel would come back to their meadow because she couldn’t fathom that the other animals would vote against themselves. Sure, everything cost more since the big sick had locked down the meadow, but wasn’t that the fault of the big corporations? What did they think the weasel was actually going to do about that, since he planned on trying to repeal minimum wage and get the eagles to take out all his enemies?

Shirley ducked into the burrow, dragging two huge bags of sticks behind her. “What are you bringing?” snapped the woodchuck. “I thought we were traveling light.”

“I needed all my favorite sticks to remember this place by,” Shirley said in a quivering voice. “I love this meadow.” Tears ran down her snout and she was suddenly sobbing as hard as Hannah had on Love is Blind when Leo broke up with her.

The woodchuck was not an affectionate animal, but watching her cousin cry broke something in her. She wrapped her tiny arms around her bulky best friend in a hug as big as she could give, and the two of them stood there for a long time.

“Shirley,” she said softly. “We can’t leave.” Shirley was still sobbing hysterically, and the gentler side that the woodchuck never showed ran out of patience. “SHIRLEY!” she shouted, slapping her relative across the snout. “I know you’re sad and scared and anxious —so am I. But we can’t leave. We are the elders in the meadow here and we have to stay and show them we will not be cowed. We have to keep fighting for all the things we believe in and letting them know just because we lost, we will not bend to their will. We will not vanish without a fight. We’re going to live on. We’re going to survive.”

She wasn’t exactly sure how they were going to do any of that and she realized that some of that pep talk might have been stolen from the president’s speech in Independence Day, but it did the trick. Shirley took a deep breath and the tears slowed.

“My God,” she whispered. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but you’re right. We have to stay and let the other animals know we can still all band together and keep trying.” She hugged her cousin and said she was going home to put all her sticks back where they belonged.

After she left, the woodchuck stood in silence in her burrow. She wasn’t sure she really believed all that stuff she had just said to Shirley, but at least her cousin had stopped crying. That was something, right? Taking care of each other.

She had found an old string of twinkle lights at the dump, and they worked fine after she replaced the fuse. She strung them from twigs across her burrow, and it made a comforting glow in the cozy tunnel. Today she would rest, and nap; maybe even break into that stash of Snickers bars she had been hoarding since Halloween. She thought about postponing hibernation but changed her mind; after a long sleep through the winter, she would wake refreshed in the spring and ready to do something. She wasn’t sure what that might be, but it would sure be something.

There was only one good thing about all this being over—at least she wouldn’t be getting any more emails and texts from the Democrats wanting more money.

As a form of self-care, I am putting up my Christmas decorations early. They make me happy, and I could sure use some happy right now.

Present: Tense

The anxiety was unbearable, like when hundreds of bees had burrowed into her fur and were all screaming at her at once because she ate their queen. (She didn’t mean to eat their ruler; it was just that all bees looked alike.) Every moment felt like hours, and the cacophony of who said what felt like it was at full volume. The rabbits in the meadow kept chanting, “they’re eating the dogs, they’re eating the cats” like it was a hilarious joke, not realizing that they could be next in the food chain. It felt like everyone had lost their damn minds.

Her cousin Shirley dropped by unexpectedly to recruit her to be a poll watcher. The woodchuck assumed that meant the polecats were going to be putting on another show, but watching those skinny little freaks dance made her feel bad about her thighs and she had enough things to worry about.

When was this madness going to be over? The animals in the forest were constantly going on about who they thought should run the woods, and every species seem to have a different idea of who was the scariest. Anxious chatter filled the skies from the bluebirds and the redbirds seemed to be completely divorced from reality, and now the muskrat was offering to pay people to vote for the weasel. The woodchuck felt that was extremely unfair, because no one on her side of the meadow was doing anything like that and she could use some extra cash. She didn’t really know what she would do with money, but she did love to win things. Also, how was that not illegal? She hoped the meerkat named Garland was looking into this.

She needed to distract herself, because if she saw one more clip of that weasel dancing to YMCA, she was going to gnaw off the paw holding her phone.

She tried watching Netflix, but the thing kept buffering and freezing. Reception in her burrow was never great, and it could always be counted on to go out just when you finally managed to lose yourself in the latest episode of Love is Blind, where the people were all terrible and no one talked about Arnold Palmer’s dick. She lay on her back in the dark, watching that little circle go endlessly around and around but never quite completing itself, not unlike this election cycle. She tried not to think about the reports that the polls were tightening, because she knew that had nothing to do with the stripping ferrets, or the fact that Pennsylvania —home of Punxsutawney, where she had faithfully predicted the weather for all those Groundhog Days!—might let her down.

Her head was going to explode if she kept thinking about this. How was she going to get through the next fourteen days? What she needed was a sure-fire distraction, a completely reliable streaming service that worked in a dark burrow and would provide enough mind numbing content to refocus her brain and force her amygdala to process only big-lipped housewives, badly-behaved yacht crews, and whatever Alan Cummings was wearing.

The woodchuck sat up, suddenly clearheaded. This was a great idea! Finally, a project that would focus her mind and keep her from endless checking her phone for updates on whether the former leader Bushy the Squirrel had endorsed someone. The woodchuck started sketching a logo for this new app and realized she should immediately apply for a patent before someone else could grab her concept. She would call it — TunnelVision!

Unfortunately, when the woodchuck applied for the trademark, she discovered that someone else had already patented the idea. It was called Bravo TV.

It was going to be a long two weeks.

Fourteen days to go. If anxiety and nerves could power vehicles, we would never again need to drill, baby, drill.

They Call Him Flipper, Flipper . . .

It was a dark and stormy night.

The woodchuck sat back and contemplated her opening line. A classic thriller deserved a non-traditional, original approach, and she felt weather really set the scene.

She was not new to writing—she had already finished her life story and in her opinion, it was a best seller. Sort of like A Million Little Pieces, only with groundhogs and truth. But countless posts on agent Twitter warned her that a debut memoir was the hardest manuscript to sell; so she set aside the three volume, 400,000 word tome it had taken her three soul-sucking weeks to complete and concentrated instead on being the next Stephen King. How hard could it be to write something like Cujo? She knew a lot about angry animals, being one herself.

She wished it really were dark and stormy, because maybe that would shut up the damn cicadas. The woodchuck had nothing against the bugs; in fact, she was quite fond of them, especially if they were served with a nice red and some quality EVOO. She understood they were excited about coming above ground and having sex (easier than coming below ground, she chortled to herself) but honestly, did they have to constantly scream about it? There had been some gossip about a fungus that caused the cicada genitals to fall off and turn them into zombies, which sounded like a perfect plot for her horror story.

Her cousin Shirley had been flipping through the woodchuck’s memoir looking for references to herself, but now she said, “Why are you still writing about cicadas? Now that that the two broods are gone, no one cares.”

The woodchuck looked around her burrow where the floor was littered with cicada exoskeleton like so many peanut shells at a Ground Round. “I just had some for lunch!”

“Yes, but those are the regular ones that come at the end of summer. The zombies are gone—you’re behind the trend.”

The woodchuck sighed and deleted the first line. It was so hard to stay current; the news moved around as fast as an infected cicada whose junk had just fallen off.

“Why don’t you write about something important that affects us all?” Shirley nagged. “There is a huge election coming up in November. Haven’t you been watching the convention?”

“Is it time to go through that whole get out the vole thing again?” complained the woodchuck. “Didn’t we already do that?” The woodchuck was known for being blind not because she couldn’t see, but because she tended to focus only on things that interested her, such as writing a best seller or the new season of Love is Blind UK (thank god for closed captioning because she couldn’t understand a word they were saying).

“It’s Get Out the VOTE, you idiot; the voles have nothing to do with it. Although I heard they might be switching to Harris now that RFK, Jr. has dropped out. They loved the whole brain worm thing until they realized he wasn’t giving them away.”

“Is he the one who was into dolphin porn?” The woodchuck wasn’t completely out of touch; she had spent hours researching that topic when it first started trending. She made a mental note to delete her search history in case Shirley borrowed her computer.

“No, that guy is running for VP with the weasel who has the fox tail stapled to his head.”

“Wait, is he the one they call a heterosectional because he likes to . . .”

“I knew you were paying attention!” interrupted Shirley. “Why do you pretend this isn’t important? You always make jokes!”

Shirley finally left, nagging about the responsibility of voting and patriotism and how much she hated bald eagles. Finally alone, the woodchuck pulled out a shirt she had owned for years, the one with the slogan on it that was close to her heart. The knot of tension she had been carrying around in her stomach for weeks had finally lessened, but she couldn’t admit that to Shirley. The fear of the weasel had been waking her up in the middle of the night for months now, and it was easier to focus on jokes than admit how scary the whole situation was. Soon it would be time to hibernate, and she had hoped to sleep through the election.

Except maybe not? If she could stay awake for the next 72 days, perhaps she could help.

She could give the public what they needed to be inspired the way she had been by all those balloons. She would write the next great chapter in the most extraordinary story ever told—a political thriller involving weasels who turn into zombies, with lots and lots of dolphin sex. In between the fish porn and the brain worm mystery would be a well-thought out list of a couple thousand reasons why electing these animals was a bad idea. She was thinking of calling it Project 2025.

She pulled the shirt over her head and the slogan Mind Your Own Damn Business stretched across her belly. Words to live by, indeed. A cicada fell out of the fold of her neck, and she popped it into her mouth. She wondered if they had caffeine in them. She was going to need it.

Shirley says: “Be sure to check your registration to make sure no one has purged you from the voting rolls!” And get out the vole!

And to Think That I Wanted a Mulberry Tree! (again)

(with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

(Can’t believe it’s time for the annual posting of this homage to Theodor Seuss Geisel. The little suckers are three weeks later than last year, which means they had time to gather their internal lethal juices so they explode with a spatter range of maroon that puts Quentin Tarantino flicks to shame. It would be amazing if it weren’t so awful.)

When I was much younger and without a clue,
I bought a big house with a big backyard, too.
I gazed at the plants and the flowers and bees,
And said “Look over there! It’s a Mulberry Tree!”

How lovely the shade a Mulberry makes.
Berries galore! All the pies that I’d bake!
I’d hang colored lights in the twigs oh so tall –
Such thoughts fill your head when you buy in the fall.

But then comes the spring and the branches are full,
Of the tiny green berries that soon will be mull.
And you stare at the many and think “Surely not!”
There can’t be — it couldn’t! — but it sure seems alot!

And, finally, summer, and the fruit overhead,
Gets heavy and turns a dark ominous red.
And before you can say “Happy Fourth of July!”
Their stems all let go and they plunge from the sky.

In bunches! In torrents! In great globs they fall!
‘Till you can’t see the ground or the grass not at all.
And you wonder if Prince wrote the song “Purple Rain”,
When he witnessed his deck become one big red stain .

Then the dog goes outside and they get tween her toes,
In her fur! In her paws! On her head! In her nose!
And so back in the house, she goes in a sprint,
Leaving a trail of maroon doggie prints.

And the birdies all come here to snack and to pick,
‘Till the yard looks like some kind of Alfred H. flick.
And they screech and they poop and they make such a mess
That you wish they’d go find someone else’s address.

So you get out the hose and you wash off the sauce,
And you say to yourself “Guess I showed them who’s boss!”
As you settle back into your deck chair to snooze,
And they pelt you, you see they are laughing at you!

“It’s a war you can’t win!” they all seem to say,
As they merrily bounce both this and that way.
“We’re with you till August and longer!” they tease,
“And nothing you do can get us to leave!”

And the sad thing is that you sure know they are right,
As they land with a thud both by day and by night.
You’ve tried pruning and cutting and various sprays
That would kill buffalo but not a berry was fazed.

And to think that I wanted a Mulberry Tree!
Long ‘for I knew it would just bring debris.
But I won’t let them win! I’ll lay down the law!
My next major purchase will be a chainsaw!

I may not have shade. I may broil in the sun.
But I have to admit just the thought of it’s fun!
All those quivering berries as I cut down that tree,
It’s the last time that fruit will be laughing at me!

The Blind Woodchuck does not appreciate being hijacked by some wannabe poet, and wants to emphasize that she quite enjoys mulberries, especially the ones that gush when you bite into them. Sometimes there are bees attached, which gives the berry an extra crunch when you pop it in your mouth. Texture is everything in a well-balanced bite.

The Cicada Parade-A!

(Still not the woodchuck, although she enjoys them as a snack)

I am a proud participant in the Cicada Parade-A, a public art project happening around the city of Chicago and neighborhoods. As the real heroes emerge from the warming soil, so will these 18 inch plaster casts painted by anyone who is as fascinated by the bugs as I am.

My cicada is called “Monument with Flying Beast”; it is a tribute to the piece of public art by Jean Debuffet that stood in front of the State of Illinois building downtown for forty years. Now that Google has bought the building, the sculpture will be moved to the Art Institute. The original piece was called “Monument with Standing Beast” and the abstract work represented an animal, tree, portal and architectural form, which also kind of applies to a cicada, amiright?

Public art endures as long as humans create! #cicadaparada