|How 'bout you make make like a tree and stop friggin' staring at me? (Image)|
What the fuck are you staring at?
Yeah, you, with the spotless North Face jacket and the brand new pair of hiking boots. I’m talking to you.
It’s been almost twenty minutes and you’re still standing there, holding your girlfriend in your arms, lovingly rubbing her shoulders to keep her warm, and gazing at me with gleeful awe like a recently adopted street urchin in an adequately-stocked kitchen. You know it’s not even cold outside, right?
Some of the evergreens warned me this would happen. I’ve been riding high for the past six months, soaking in the rays and trippin’ on chlorophyll. But they told me the fun was going to end eventually. As soon as the days got shorter and those cold nights set in they knew things were going to change. And they knew you’d coming running to watch the horror unfold. And you’d savor it. You sick fucks.
I’ve been up here since spring with my stem attached to this tree. I’m like a cat that’s being held at the tail by a toddler. For months you've taken no notice of me. And now that that toddler has held me to the brink of death, you want to stare at me and think, “Oh goodness, what a cute little fur ball he is.” You’re lucky I don’t have a skeletal system, some form of reliable locomotion, and speech. Because if I did you bet your ass I’d be at your cancer-ridden bedside when you’re on your way out of this world and thoughtfully say with a bit too much enjoyment, “Awww, they’re so beautiful when they shit their pants and drool on themselves.”
How come this type of stuff only happens to leaves? A bear would never have to put up this. Those things get born, grow claws, eat stuff, steal campers’ peanut butter, and get fat. Nowhere in that job description are they required to change color and get stared at. If you stare at me, you get a photo op. You stare at a bear? You get mauled.
And then they sleep all winter.
Honestly, try having some compassion. When you quietly drift into the twilight of your life, your family will likely gather around you, feeding you when you can’t lift a fork to your face and laughing at your prejudice jokes. Because at that age, you’re set in your ways and no one is going to try to convince you that jumping on the back of a Kenyan man really isn’t an appropriate form of long distance travel. After you take your last breath, your grandchildren will cry and your sons and daughters will raise a glass in a toast to make sure your memory lives on...
When I fall from this tree, some kid will rake me into a mass grave and jump on me.
So, stop staring at me like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen the color orange and let me die in peace. I swear to god when next spring rolls around I’m going to go berserk all up in your nostrils as retaliation. Mark my words: In five months it’s going to get hista-mean up in this bitch.
That’s a seasonal allergy pun. And a promise.
You’re welcome, Fuckers.