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| 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. 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.
…Assholes.
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.
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