DC Playwrights

“it’s gonna be a mild winter,”
said the squirrel.
“global warming,” i replied.

‘we also had a mild summer,”
squirrel noted.
“is that global warming, too?”

“global warming means
whatever i choose it to mean.
neither more nor less.”

“question is,” asked the squirrel,
“whether you can make words
mean so many different things?”

“when i make a word
do a lot of work like that,”
i declared, “i always pay it extra.”

“global warming is two words,”
said the squirrel

“then i am really getting a good deal.”

“sword and pistol by his side?”
squirrel asked.
“uh huh,” i said.
“uh huh.”

“i don’t know if i should be more upset,”
said the squirrel,
“about the interspecies miscegenation
or by the fact that amphibians
are walking around armed to the gills.”

"what sort of values
are we teaching our children?”
i asked the squirrel.
“oh, right, you don’t have any children.”
“none that i know about,” he added.

“how do you want to die?”
asked the squirrel.
“curious or are you pre-meditating again?
’cause pre-meditating will get you life –“
“yeah, i know,” interrupted the squirrel.
“crime of passion, eight to ten.”

“well, not that i want to be defenestrated,
but i have this recurring dream,” i said.
“defenestrated? what does that mean?”
interrupted the squirrel again.

“it means being killed
by being thrown through a window,” i explained.
“happens a lot in nineteenth century russian novels.”

squirrel called the front desk for towels.
a man answered and said,
“i will send the boy.”
squirrel waited ten minutes
and called the front desk again.
the man answered and said,
“i told you, i will send the boy.”

after thirty minutes,
squirrel went to the front desk
where he saw a stack of towels.
behind the desk was a man
reading a newspaper.

squirrel said,
“i called about the towels.”
the man insisted,
“i will send the boy.
he will bring them.”
squirrel returned to the room
without the towels.

“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.