To all those who watch, feed, coo over, or otherwise encourage the black squirrels on Healy Lawn,
Please stop. Those stupid squirrels are nothing but furry attention whores. Don’t even get me started on their “cute” little antics—reading newspapers, pretending to get caught in the chips bag—GAG! A sparrow like me can’t get no love! All day long, all I hear is “Look at the squirrels! Look at the squirrels!” We sparrows are birds of song, bringing joy and melody to the world. Squirrels are nothing more than harbingers of disease; they’re basically rats with fluffy tails. Yet those bastards get all the attention—gawking tourists taking pictures of them, sweet little freshman girls offering them breadcrumbs. If I have to see another one of ’em scamper playfully into John Carroll’s lap, I’m going to peck out their beady little eyes.
That’s how I came to live in Hoya Court. Well, ok, not at first. I initially tried to live in the library. But as soon as I get through the door, that Jamaican security woman at the front desk says,”GO card, please,” and I’m like, “Lady, I’m a bird. I don’t have a GO Card. Where would I put it? In my pocket-sized Vineyard Vines bag?”
So I flew into the Leavey Center. It was easy. At first, I thought I’d just stay until winter, until those stupid black squirrels migrate to some trailer park in south Florida, or wherever furry attention whores go to die, but no—they don’t budge. It’s cool, though; I like it here. The guy at Uncommon Grounds leaves me bagels at night, and I steal little morsels of medical residents’ Subway sandwiches after their Red Bull wears off and they fall asleep on the couches in Sellinger Lounge.
The only thing that bothers me is KFC. It’s the smell, really. At the rate they’re deep-frying my feathered friends, they’ll find me way before the end of the semester. Although, if that happens, I happen to know where Colonel Sanders can find some small mammal meat that tastes JUST like chicken. You just let me know.
The Hoya Court Sparrow.