The Woodchuck
Normally I don’t get mad when woodchucks try to mate with humans. Because as far as I’m concerned, if I was a woodchuck, and I could chuck wood, it frankly wouldn’t be enough to validate my existence. Not that there’s anything wrong with chucking wood. Some of my best friends lived their entire lives simply chucking as much wood as they could chuck. How much? I’m still not sure.
But no. I would need something better. More profound. I would need to put on my hunkiest low cut black woodchuck shirt, oil up my chest and sneak out among the humans. To forget my woodchucking days and dream of a better tomorrow. A tomorrow where all the wood has been chucked. And I could simply nibble on the plump shoulder of a sleeveless silver dress.
There, passing for adult male, I could hide my woodchuckiness, clutch a drink, and lazily gesture at a camera. As flickering electric candles danced in the shrubbery behind me. No longer a woodchuck chucking wood. But a human douchebag. Because a woodchuck can dream, can’t he?
