This week’s episode: Desparodent or The Unmooseable Lightness of Being

flying-squirrel“Hokey smokes!” exclaimed the little brown squirrel. “We have adventure after adventure, we go to the Isle of Lucy to find the Tooky Tooky Bird, we fly to the Upsidasium Mountain, we even rocket to the Moon with Gidney and Cloyd to vanquish the Metal Munchin’ Moon Mice and yet we always end up right back here in Frostbite Falls, Minnesota. It all seems so pointless, it fills me with an existential torpor that can only be answered with stasis or suicide.”

“You said it, little buddy,” the mighty moose replied. “It’s enough to have you believing in a malevolent universe.”

“Right. I find no pleasure in anything. When I sail the skies, I scan the wide vistas altitude provides me and always, always, I discover anew all that man has destroyed by his arrogance and menace. All I see is misery. I’ve lost hope.”

“Yeah, and the homoerotic subtext of our relationship is starting to make me itchy.”

The squirrel abruptly stopped walking. “Say, what’s the message on that sign?”

“‘Dr. Sigmund Freud…’”

“That’s not what it says. It’s ‘Dr. Sigmund Fraud…”

“I guess he watches the show,” the Moose interjected.

“… Psychiatrist, Philosopher, Bestower of Hope to the Hopeless’ Gosh!”



Captive bull moose in velvet at AWCC.“Roskolnikov!” exclaimed the little mustached man in the black suit and hat, as he carefully glued the pointy beard to his chin. “Our plan is working. They’ve succumbed to a soul-crushing ennui so profound only death will relieve their intolerable sadness. Have we arrayed our subliminal influencers?” he asked the tall raven-haired beauty in the purple dress.

“Don’t worry dahling,” she replied. “Everything was put where they could see them.”

“The photos of abandoned puppies?”

“Yes dahling.”

“The cities turned to rubble by war?”

“Yes dahling.”

“The starving refugee children in interment camps?”

“Dahling, everything has been taken care of.”

“Bwah-hah-hah-hah,” the little man laughed. “Finally, we have them. Potsylvania, oh my Potsylvania, I long to come home to you, your malarial swamps, your arid plains, your sputtering volcanoes, like pathways direct to the ninth circle of hell, but I am a slave, a slave I tell you, indentured to this homicidal obsession of mine. I hate them. I hate them! I can’t go home and I will never have peace – not until moose and squirrel are dead.”

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