The squirrels here are not what they seem. You might think you know squirrels--chittering little furballs that can never decide whether to cross the street. Maybe that's true where you live. Up here, though, the squirrels have mutated from harmless rodents into something more sinister.
First, they have no fear. Normal squirrels flee in terror when a person walks by. These squirrels sit and stare, practically daring you to come closer. "Want a piece of me, buddy?" they seem to say, no doubt in a squeaky Alvin-and-the-Chipmunks voice. Just walk on by. It's not worth the trouble.
Second, they will eat anything. I guess they learned this from watching college students. I once saw a squirrel gnawing on a buffalo wing. If that doesn't put the fear of God in your heart, I don't know what will.
Third, they have a disconcerting habit of popping out of trash cans. According to my back-of-the-envelope calculations, at any given time 73% of the campus trash cans are occupied by squirrels. Go to toss out an empty Cheetos bag and there are better-than-even odds that a squirrel will jump out and claw your face off. OK, that last part is poetic license.
Am I getting through to you? If not, let me make it explicit: the squirrels of New Jersey must be destroyed. They are probably plotting our destruction as I write. We must strike first. Time is running out...
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