You’ve been in Squirrelville, on the forty-fifth parallel, unparalleled in everything except the water in the well. Swell. You need a shower now. Forget about the junk in the well hole trunk and take a dunk in the swimming hole, jump into your swimming trunks. Jump into the box of your Dad’s Ford pickup truck. Skid down the hill like a five-alarm kid in an on-fire candy shop. Stop. Suck in, tuck in, frigid water gets in, kicking your butt with a kick to the you-know-what. Shrinkin’ your thing like a bahzeels brain freeze. Seven-eleven ain’t got nothing on Huron. ICEbae is cold but she’s nothing like Georgian.
Congregate again, back to the place, back to the place where the red squirrels race. The squirrels, while cute, have annoyed you this time but you’ll trade their annoyance for the ovine kind.
Any day, any time, any day, any time, you’ll trade their annoyance for the ovine kind.