http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=24255621#
Exerpt from the item's description: "...Say "Hello." He may not understand you, but he finds comfort in the sounds of your voice..." and the classic "Shipping insurance is included for your peace of mind." (Thank goodness!)
2 comments:
thats almost as good as the Horned Duckling on the same website.....
Found a fitting story online ....
"...Look at my picture over there. See the evil in my eyes? The lack of remorse? The paste-on beard? Yes, America, that is the face of a squirrel killer.
After 15 years of successfully avoiding squirrels in heavily wooded neighborhoods, my streak has ended. I am converting my hood ornament into crosshairs and stenciling "#1 Squirrel Killah" on the side of my Honda.
For some reason, I have always risked life and limb to avoid killing animals with my car. I will maniacally blow them away with a gun, but a car is just not a civilized way to dispense with God's smaller creatures. Contradictions – they're what make us human. Well, that and the fact that we actually ARE humans. Column canceled.
I have a long history of being pro-(wild)life. I once locked up my wheels and blasted a stone mailbox off my grill while avoiding a cat that was asleep on the road. Standing over my steaming radiator, astride a pile of cracked limestone, I noticed the cat was still "asleep." I felt like an idiot. So I left a fake number on the rubble and got drunk at a topless joint.
I once hit a deer so hard on a country road that he sailed through my windshield and ended up spread-eagle in the passenger's seat. Fortunately, he was unhurt, and rode all the way to Phoenix with me, loading the one-hitter and working the iPod.
But my automotive squirrel-killing-free streak ended on Monday (awkwardly worded). I was traveling down one of my regular streets, Prostitution Lane, when I spotted a squirrel at 40 yards with a nut in his mouth and a song in his heart. He spotted me, too, and froze mid-street.
"Surely, he will turn back," I thought.
His eyes grew as large as drink coasters.
"Move, dammit!" I thought, my car bearing down at 40 miles an hour.
My eyes narrowed, and I gripped the wheel. I looked over at a large, recently repaired stone mailbox and thought better of it. "Come on, little guy. Move."
He covered his eyes with his little front paws and screamed. The nut fell from his mouth in slow motion and bounced into a storm grate. I screamed inside my car. Neighbors screamed inside their homes.
Then his little squirrel mind went blank, and the next thing he experienced was Squirrel Jesus handing him a golden acorn and putting a comforting claw on his shoulder.
Around that time, I was back in the topless joint, retelling the story and pricing out car stenciling.
I hate myself..."
Gordon Keith
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