DC Playwrights

“gustatus similis pullus,”
said the squirrel.
“know what that means?”

“yeah. tastes like chicken,”
i said.
“what tastes like chicken?”
he asked.

“well … uhm,
snake, turtle, frog,
various tetrapod, squirrel.”

“what?” said the squirrel indignantly.
“you mean, people eat squirrel?”

“some people do,”
i confessed.
“mostly hillbillies and canadians.”

“are we going to take
the tour of parliament?”
asked the squirrel.
“sure,” i said.
“when?
you know some days
are better than others.”

“yes, i would think
pitt would be better than balfour,
and disraeli better than gladstone,”
but for my money,” i added –
“the tours are free,” said the squirrel.

since it didn’t make a tuppence,
“i’ll take stanley baldwin,” i said.

“people tell me i am insincere,”
i say to the squirrel.
“really?” he asks.
“can you believe it?”
“are you serious?” replies the squirrel.

“i think i am going
to develop a stutter,”
i explain.
“a stutter?”

“yes, so when i
t-t-t-t-talk,
people will
p-p-p-p-pity me instead.”

“it must be nice
to choose your affliction,”
says the squirrel.

“i must write lafcadio,”
said the squirrel,
as he leapt from his bed.

“hearn has been dead
for 100 years,”
i told him.

“by dead, do you mean
he’s in japan?”
asked the squirrel.

“no. dead,” i relied,
“as in taking a dirt nap.”

“tarnation,” shouted the squirrel,
and left to pilot the delta queen.

squirrel walked up and down
massachusetts avenue,
looking for the elusive paddlewheeler.
“damn portuguese ropes,”
he muttered.

“little brother is watching,”
said the squirrel.
“you mean big brother,”
i replied.
“it’s little brother
you have to worry about,”
said the squirrel.

“little brother who tells dad
that you are the one
who lowered the thermostat?”

“that’s how it starts,”
warned the squirrel.
“he can be anyone and everywhere.”

“the guy behind you
in the express check-out line?”
i asked.
“counting your groceries,”
said the squirrel.

suddenly,
breaking into a cold sweat,
i realized
he could be everyone between
khrushchev and sean merino.

"before this decade is out,
a squirrel will land on mars."
"really?" i said.
why is that?"

"it's our galactic destiny,"
proclaimed the squirrel.
"but you have never been further
than rock creek park.
what makes your think
a squirrel is going to mars?"

"you have never danced a ballet
or won a bull fight,"
charged the squirrel.
"i don't want to do those things,"
i countered.

"you have never exhibited
at the guggenheim
or delivered a hippopotamus,"
i challenged.

"i can't feel my legs,"
said the squirrel.
"everything is getting dark.
i'm so cold."

"wake up, squirrel. you're dreaming."
"but it seemed so real –
like i was at the front.
what do you think it means?

"i don't know," i said.
"maybe you're longing for a simpler time."
"a kinder and gentler time?"
sighed the squirrel.

"yes," i smiled,
"when white men ruled the world
with an iron victrola."
"what?" the squirrel asked.

"a time when
all men were brothers,"
i continued,
"and settled their differences
like gentlemen
with mustard gas and flame throwers."

“did you just fart?” said the squirrel.
“no,” i said.
“well it wasn’t me,” he protested.
“there are only two of us in the car,”
i explained.
“it wasn’t me –
so it had to be you.”

i don’t know if it’s their diet
or their metabolism,
but you definitely don’t want to be in a car
with the windows rolled up
when a squirrel rips a left cheek sneak.

the stench is nothing like
the bouquet of last year’s beaujolais nouveau.
perhaps it’s more akin to a wheel of camembert
that's been left in the trunk for three or four days.

looking up from his book, squirrel said,
“good stuff that emily dickenson,”
“know her work?”
“yes,” i said.
“powerful imagery,”
added the squirrel.
“use of metaphor – profound.”
”yes,” i said.

“do you know the poem,
i heard a squirrel buzz when i died?”
“i think she wrote 'fly',” i said.
“really?” said the squirrel.
“pretty sure,” i said.
“i think 'squirrel' is a better image,
metaphorically,” replied the squirrel.
“'fly' makes better use of assonance,”
i explained, “goes with 'i' and 'died'.”

squirrel says he has the sunday blues.

“what’s that?” i ask.
he explains he gets depressed on sunday
when realizes that he has to go back to work on monday.

on monday he feels resentment
and refuses to work all day.

tuesday is pretty much the same
although the loathing starts to wane.

when wednesday rolls around,
he perks up a bit,
only because the week is half over.

on thursday he feels like he’s ready to start working;
however, he knows whatever he starts
he won’t be able to finish it in two days.