Post by Revvin on May 8, 2004 12:27:14 GMT -5
We always knew there was something sinister about squirrels...
Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won't Patrol Brice Street Anymore)
If you need a laugh, here it is.
I never dreamed slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a
residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!
Little did I suspect ...I was on Brice Street - a very nice
neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic.! As I passed an oncoming
car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop
immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying
to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going
very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it -- it was that
close.
I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle,
but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for
the impact.
Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care
of themselves! Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He
was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with
steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the
last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream
was squirrel for, "Bonzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen
scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacu! lar ... as he shot straight
up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest.
Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have
sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack.
Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of
activity. As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves,
and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado
was doing some damage!
Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in
jeans, a T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a
quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel.
And losing...
I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally
managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent
off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I
recoiled f! rom the throw.
That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there.
It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the
pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have
headed home. No one would have been the wiser.
But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary
angry squirrel. This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH !
Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands
and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump
and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my back and resumed his
rather antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to
take my left glove with him!
The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks
were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled to say the
least. The combination of the force of! the throw, only having one hand
(the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately
put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy
twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This
is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The
engine roared and the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed
in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in ... well ... I
just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed
in jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn-t-shirt, wearing only one leather
glove, and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet
residential street on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back.
The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.
With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back
on the handlebars and try to get control of the! bike. This was leaving
the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash
into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured
out how to release the throttle ... my brain was just simply overloaded. I
did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the
massive power of the big cruiser.
About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying
sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is an evil
mutant NAZI attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got
INSIDE my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed part way, he
began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed intensity.
It had little effect on the squirrel, however. The RPMs on The Dragon
maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the moment) so her
front end started to drop.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed
in ! jeans, a very raggedly torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove,
roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy
squirrel's tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet.
By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse. Finally I
got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of
my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it
worked ... sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of .. so to speak.
Picture a new scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have
pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down
to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome
cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and
wearing only one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel,
and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a
live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.
I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the big
motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then
used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the
stop sign of a busy cross street. I would have returned to fess up (and to
get my glove back). I really would have. Really. Except for two things.
First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned
about me at the moment.
When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were
flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a
crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car.
The cop who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street and
was aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car. So the cops were not
interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it"
anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I ! could clearly see
shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But
I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his
little fist at me. That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol
car. A somewhat shredded patrol car ... but it was all his.
I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right
turn off of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood
I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And
some Band-Aids
Neighborhood Hazard (or: Why the Cops Won't Patrol Brice Street Anymore)
If you need a laugh, here it is.
I never dreamed slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a
residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!
Little did I suspect ...I was on Brice Street - a very nice
neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic.! As I passed an oncoming
car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop
immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying
to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going
very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it -- it was that
close.
I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle,
but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for
the impact.
Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care
of themselves! Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He
was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with
steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the
last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream
was squirrel for, "Bonzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen
scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacu! lar ... as he shot straight
up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest.
Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have
sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack.
Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of
activity. As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves,
and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado
was doing some damage!
Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in
jeans, a T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a
quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel.
And losing...
I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally
managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent
off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I
recoiled f! rom the throw.
That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there.
It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the
pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have
headed home. No one would have been the wiser.
But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary
angry squirrel. This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH !
Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands
and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump
and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my back and resumed his
rather antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to
take my left glove with him!
The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks
were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled to say the
least. The combination of the force of! the throw, only having one hand
(the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately
put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy
twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This
is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The
engine roared and the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed
in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in ... well ... I
just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed
in jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn-t-shirt, wearing only one leather
glove, and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet
residential street on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back.
The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.
With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back
on the handlebars and try to get control of the! bike. This was leaving
the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash
into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured
out how to release the throttle ... my brain was just simply overloaded. I
did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the
massive power of the big cruiser.
About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying
sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is an evil
mutant NAZI attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got
INSIDE my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed part way, he
began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed intensity.
It had little effect on the squirrel, however. The RPMs on The Dragon
maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the moment) so her
front end started to drop.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed
in ! jeans, a very raggedly torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove,
roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy
squirrel's tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet.
By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse. Finally I
got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of
my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it
worked ... sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of .. so to speak.
Picture a new scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have
pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down
to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome
cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and
wearing only one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel,
and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a
live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.
I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the big
motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then
used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the
stop sign of a busy cross street. I would have returned to fess up (and to
get my glove back). I really would have. Really. Except for two things.
First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned
about me at the moment.
When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were
flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a
crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car.
The cop who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street and
was aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car. So the cops were not
interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it"
anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I ! could clearly see
shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But
I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his
little fist at me. That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol
car. A somewhat shredded patrol car ... but it was all his.
I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right
turn off of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood
I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And
some Band-Aids