Re: “Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk”
I don’t know what to say. I thought we were friends, more than friends, really. I even wrote you a letter a while back, and you answered it. Your letter contained a typo, I’ll admit, and now that I’ve read, “Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk,” I’m beginning to think the typo had been deliberate. You’ve become quite a powerful manipulator with that bulging little brain you’ve got packed in there. You know you can effortlessly charm a chuckle out of even the most damaged and disillusioned among us. The chuckle feels like an innocent tickle at first, but it soon grows into some kind of manic hysterical rapture, and then comes the searing loyalty and the constant need to call and repeat your every line to friends and relatives at all hours of the night, just for the chance to relive them.
For years you’ve delighted and embarrassed a desperate generation of truth seekers with your cunning humor, your uncanny female impersonations and your slaughtering insight. And now, because you’ve left us starving for more of your affectionate wisdom, (Your last book was published in what? 2008! That’s two years of sitting and waiting!), we flocked to the bookstores en masse only to learn that your intention all along was to coax us into your little literary lair and then whip us mercilessly with your blood soaked pen. What the hell?
Talk about the pen being mightier than the sword. I honestly never believed it until now. I was more of a “sticks and stones” type girl, but now that I’ve been so deeply wounded, I see how much fun this must have been for you. Seeing us line up at your door like so many hungry little mice, while you anxiously sprung and licked your kitteny claws on the other side. Did you think we would just stand there and take it while you described, in excruciating detail, how that poor bear in a skirt had his teeth hammered out with a rock, or how families of maggots were living in his knees? Did you think we’d just keep on reading and continue paying tribute to your little emotional massacre after that poor baby lamb got his eyes plucked out?
Okay, fine! I read them all. But I couldn’t help myself.
The combination of your dead on description of an unscrupulous furry creature nonchalantly pulling a burr off her thigh and the lightness and accessibility of my new Kindle, coupled with the fact that I relish every single one of your brutal insinuations, (Yes we are a pack of selfish, complacent, deceptive, racist, animals!) made it impossible for me to turn away.
But I will never forget this betrayal, David Sedaris. I feel like a fool. And yet I’m willing to give you one more chance.
Therefore, can you please tell me when your next collection of short stories is coming out? I’d very much like to preorder it. That is if you’ll allow me to do so. In the meantime, I’ll just reread this one more time.