Feral Children

Sometimes, a cocktail or nine make one reflect on current conditions. Back in good old 2009, I found myself unemployed and feeling ruminant. The result follows:

Dear Government Types,

Just thought I'd drop a line and see how the world is treating you. Are you still in Washington? Or did you put in for that transfer to Juno for the janitorial position?

I myself am doing well. I adapted to the New World Order surprisingly quickly. By day, I forage for roots and nuts, which is far easier now that the snow is gone. The squirrels pose a risk, as they have become annoyed at me for stealing their food supply, and are not above murder. They‘ve enlisted the aid of a particularly fat raccoon that delights in throwing specimens at me from the safety of the trees. Ah, but they forget the chain saw. Death from below…

Foraging requires spending a considerable amount of time in a crouching pose, which adds greatly to the risk of attack by woodland creatures, as well as ambush by Flora and Fauna, two elderly spinsters with squatter's rights to my neighbor's cistern. I have, however, devised an early warning system that provides a measure of defense from these perils.  Providence provided me with a seemingly abandoned Volkswagen Micro Bus, which surrendered its rear-view mirrors in record time. These I affixed to the sides of a pith helmet, affording me a view to the rear, and an opportunity to avoid subterfuge.

Night fall finds me lurking along the edges of the swamp with my trusty blowgun, waiting for bullfrogs, or--if I'm lucky--fruit bats. During the full phase of the moon, I light a ceremonial bonfire of rendered fat, and roast sacrificial yams. Fridays are for looting and raping.

My children have become feral, and no longer share our home, preferring the shelter of a crude hut they built out of doughnuts and whiskey bottles. The boy has taken to dressing like Bob Denver, and is building a bamboo submarine. The girl spends most of her time eating dirt and torturing her imaginary friend.

My wife, alas, has yet to accept the new life we have. She still insists on keeping up the charade that jobs have value, preferring to spend her days "Teaching business classes," and "Practicing Law." I'm sure that this is code for some nefarious activity. I remain hopeful that she will see the light before the submarine is finished and the children leave for Hawaii. They grow up so fast.

In any event, I hope this finds you well. Beware the squirrels.

A. Voter, esquire.