Fluffy Rodents of Demonic Heritage
I’ve been attacked multiple times by on-campus squirrels, but it doesn’t have to happen to you.
By Olivia W. McCoy, University of Georgia
I do not understand why squirrels have become a factor in judging a college campus’ charm.
Sure they’re fuzzy and chubby and the fact that they beg for food like that punt-able thing that you call a dog is, I’ll admit, adorable. But, under all those huggable exteriors and fluff is the same rat-tail skeleton and rodent mien that makes you wants to piss your pants and burn your house down when you see its cousin scurry across your floor. Seriously, have you seen those suckers shaved?
To be fair, the average American squirrel really isn’t that bad. They’re kind of chunky, fairly lazy, somewhat oblivious—basically the average American baby. But the best part is that they chose to leave us the hell alone, something I believe that we have not yet fully come to appreciate.
The campus squirrel species, on the other hand, is sent by the Devil from the underworld and has formed a coalition against the collegiate population. Somehow, they have managed to seduce the media and lure us into a false state of security.
Which is ridiculous. They don’t want to comingle and live in peace with us. Campus squirrels are peeved at us for our obvious superiority, and the hellish fiends have no good intentions toward us whatsoever. We need to take back our campuses while we still have the upper hand, because by the time these brutes flood into our classrooms, dorms and safe havens, it will be too late.
Evidence #1: It was 2009 and I was exploring the local community college’s campus on a sunny afternoon with my friend. A friendly game of Dare (we all know that only the chickens pick truth) broke out, and when Double Dog Dared to climb a magnificent oak, I did so (quite spectacularly).
Whilst celebrating said victory, a satanic chattering broke out above my left ear, something I can only describe to this day describe as the demented chuckle of a murderous clown mixed with a snake that’s come down with a really bad cold. As I slowly turned my head, I saw him.
He was matted, manged and bigger than the frilly little critter you probably have in your lap right now (everything is bigger in Texas) and his cold, soulless eyes were staring straight into my very core.
I jumped twenty feet down from the tree and booked it, screaming like a maniac until I hit my street corner three blocks down. I barely had the mind to save my friend as my heart played jump rope with my ribs and the savage spawn chanted its peoples’ cry.
Piece of Evidence #2: 2014, my first semester at college. The University of Georgia has the most enchanting north campus of any school I’ve ever seen, and on this particular day as I walked to class, I couldn’t help but notice how flawless the bright, colorful fall afternoon was. It was nothing short of perfection. I should’ve known.
Out of nowhere a beast began sprinting toward me. It showed no signs of slowing down, but I stayed my course and continued walking straight into its line of fire. 2009 flashbacks commenced, but I sustained.
My class is this direction and I can’t be late.
I felt the cool sting of salt and sweat building on my brow.
It’s more scared of me than I am of it.
I managed to avoid making eye contact with the creature, but I did secretly keep a (VERY) careful watch on it through my peripheral vision. The nerve that it must’ve taken to rush me down the middle of the walkway convinced me that my attacker was that same one from five years ago, come back to finish the job.
Just when I couldn’t stand the suspense anymore, it leapt into the air at me from ten feet away. Whereas most people get the choice of flight or flight, my body had been prepared for this fateful day and gave me both.
My backpack was off in .02 seconds and flung in the marauder’s direction as a defensive maneuver.
While my attacker tried to avoid my tactful distraction, I turned and ran like a prison escapee climbing out of his spoon-dug tunnel.
I left my brand new laptop bag lying on the cement as I did so, because for all I cared the bag was his now. There was no turning back—it was do or die. And. I. Did. Eventually I returned to the scene of the crime. As the shame of failure had prevented my assailant from reappearing, I was able to retrieve my things and hurry to class.
I tried to explain to my professor why I was fifteen minutes late but should still be counted present.
“You don’t understand!” I cried, “The squirrels here are deadly!”
“Those cute ol’ things?” he laughed. “Well I at least appreciate the creativity of your excuse.” And that was strike three.
I know how these stories make me look, but I tell them to you anyway because I truly believe that it is time to take action.
We must take to our traps and flood their burrows because the Furby-like creatures have no business on our turf. The next time you see one of those brown-grey furry little assholes, you look it straight in the eye and let them know you mean business. In fact, let them know that we mean war.