As some of you may know, I suffered a home invasion by a warrior raccoon on Wednesday afternoon. The animal was particularly aggressive, and as Heidi and I were feeling a little under the weather, we were unable to fight, and were forced to take refuge in the front room. It was all a little bit embarrassing, but fortunately Rachelle was at work, and had to go directly to her league basketball game when work was over. I called her and told her that I was preparing a special post-birthday surprise for her, and that I needed the apartment to myself for the night, and asked her if she could stay at her sister’s for the night, which she seemed really happy to do.
Whatever.
Anyway, I was barricaded in the front room and feeling kind of anxious, so I started drinking whiskey. While I was doing this, the raccoon was happily in the kitchen eating my Triscuits and Heidi’s bag of kibble, amongst other things. By around nine, using the elongated mirror I devised using a hockey stick, I noticed about four raccoons in the kitchen, that had clearly come in to take refuge from the rain.
Furious that these warrior raccoons were taken over my home, I crushed up a bunch of sleeping pills into a bottle of Cassis,which I poured into a bowl and left as an offering to the warrior raccoons. I then turned up the music loud and got drunk.
Some people speak in Australian accents when they get drunk, I write letters to celebrities.
This is the letter I found on my computer this morning, I mean afternoon, when I got up:
Dear Michelle Obama:
I think you have beautiful, strong arms.
I bet you could kill a warrior raccoon with those beautiful strong arms.
I would kill a raccoon for you, I think.
With a bomb. A bomb the size of a house.
Boom!
Hey! You’re married to the President of the United States! What’s that like? Does he put his pants on one leg at a time, or does he do it differently? I’ve always wondered about that. I don’t know why. I just do.
If I were President I would declare war on raccoons. I would bring our troops home and get them to kill all the raccoons. Screw Al Gore and his environment! He can kiss my ass! I bet he doesn’t have a pack of warrior raccoons living in his kitchen. I also bet he owns his house and doesn’t rent. I would like to own a house one day, but I guess that means going out and getting a job, and it’s pretty hard to do that when you’re held hostage by a bunch of raccoons. I’m trying to poison them to death with alcohol and sleeping pills right now.
Uh-oh.
A few of the raccoons have come up to my barricade, and they’re looking at my dog funny, like maybe they might want to marry her.
Do you know how to make a blowtorch using a barbeque igniter and a bottle of gin?
Anyway, I better go, but I want you to know that you’re doing a great job, and I really like that purse you took on that trip to Russia!
Michael Murray