The other day I came home to a chipmunk domestic in my yard. It was like COPS: Small Woodland Creature edition, minus the mini wife beater tanks and camera crew.
Considering there was plenty of food under the feeder for all to enjoy, it made me wonder what could tick off these little buggers so much that they would scream and chase each other around the yard. Does he always leaves the seat up? Does she only cook up corn?
Yes, I spent a few moments pondering this.
Perhaps I’ve just been watching CSI: NY for too long. It’s pretty much the only “serious” show that I’ll watch on TV, due in part to the fact I feel a special connection with Gary Sinise after he and his Lt. Dan Band—yes, it’s a thing—were the entertainment at a Halloween party about five years ago.
But I do like the characters and the show, despite the fact each episode would only last about 20 minutes if you took away the music and shots of the medical examiner looking fascinated every time he picked up a scalpel (accompanied by aforementioned music.)
While I don’t live in New York and am fairly confident that I’m not part of an underground Mafia ring, I am a little hyperaware of certain things.
I think people sitting in their cars in empty parking lots look creepy—even if they’re just taking a lunch break, going into a bank makes me feel like I’m part of “Oceans 11” minus the hot guys and I assume anyone who pulls up behind me at an ATM is the Unibomber out for a jaunt.
But if (god forbid) something did every happen to me, I’m pretty sure I would be the world’s worst hostage.
The perps would most likely “remove me from the situation” quickly or surrender to authorities ASAP, preferring jail to my incessant requests to get home in time to watch the new “Chopped.”
Along with the wrath of me missing my TV show, they would have to contend with the fact I drink water all the time. Drinking water all the time combined with a bladder the size of a Cheerio means I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.
And hell hath no fury if this “situation” falls within any of the five windows during the day in which I engage in my feedings.
If for some reason things did get carried away and a ransom note was required, the criminal would have to let me put my artistic OCD skills to use in cutting out all the letters from magazines myself. In addition, I would need to edit and possibly revise said ransom note before it could be sent out to authorities.
If it has my name on it, I want it to look good.
At any rate, the news description of what I was wearing when I went missing would probably cause my family to pretend they don’t know who I am. “Yoga pants, a sweatshirt and a streak of hummus in her hair? Nope, I don’t know her.”
That would be unfortunate, because I’m pretty sure the criminal would ante up funds simply to send me away if my above requirements weren’t met. After all, I have chipmunks to feed, and apparently you don’t want to piss those guys off.
You never know what they can do.
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