This morning, on my way to get coffee, I saw a squirrel brained on the sidewalk.
“Brained” has always ranked high on my mental list of Grossest Words of All Time, and this real-life embodiment of the word did not fail to disappoint. First of all, dead squirrels are typically regulated to roadkill on the side of the highway…not splattered in full 3-D realism outside of Intelligentsia. Second of all, I almost stepped on it. Third of all, I hate seeing dead animals (unless they’re dead cockroaches…no wait, I hate seeing those, too, I NEVER WANT TO SEE ANOTHER COCKROACH EVER). I made an audible vomming sound, shielded my eyes, and sprinted away from the crime scene like the delicate flower that I am.
The reason this was especially traumatizing is that the squirrel’s brains were bright pink, and right before going to bed last night, I read a graphic passage in an Alice Munro story detailing–what else?–bright pink brains. May I share? A farmer walks in on his wife getting felt up by the opthamologist, who has his hand up her skirt in order to ostensibly “balance himself” as he checks her vision. Instead of saying something like, “What’s going on here, my good sir?” or “Getcher dirty hands off mah woman,” or “YOU FIVE-CENT WHORE!” the farmer–being the brawny man-of-little-words that farmers often are–BRAINS THE OPTHAMOLOGIST AGAINST THE LIVING ROOM FLOOR.
Now That’s What I Call Reasonable!
The delicate, white-haired, Canadian flower that is Mrs. Munro describes the carnage as such:
It was pink stuff, and if you wanted to know what it looked like it looked exactly like when the froth comes up when you’re boiling the strawberries to make jam. Bright pink. It was smeared over his face from when Rupert had him facedown.
After this morning, I made a few succinct edits to my life list:
7. Make homemade strawberry jam. 21. Get eyes checked. 40. Adopt a squirrel.