I wasn’t going to post anything today. I was going to hammer out the latest installment of The Back Forty tomorrow, which I still will probably do. But as my new piano is downstairs, I have to walk past all the boxes of crap I put out of sight and mind until now. Plus, I recently heard a women at work talking about moving her daughter and new husband into a new house and lamenting the fact that they elected to go through all of their boxes after they were done moving the whole mess to the new place (I did the exact same thing when I put all of my stuff in storage and waited until this current house to start once again shedding things.)
One of the things I unearthed was a box of my writing. Old journals, letters I never sent, all kinds of stuff. At the bottom of all this was a collection of printed writings, all of which had “Andrew Jackson Sigler ‘94” printed at the bottom, so I assume they’re mine. Remnants from the days that my roommate (Yes, my current roommate. Now. In 2015) and I were the editors of our high school literary magazine Ink Inc. (Still love that title). Some of them aren’t half bad. Some of them, well, puerile attempts by a bourgeois high school kid trying desperately to sound worldly and wise is what they are. And some of them are … how shall I put this … flucking wHeird as a friend of mine would say.
What follows is one of these attempts at off-Broadway prose. I should mention that this was written before I ever did any drugs whatsoever. I mean, I may have gotten drunk with the same best friend turned current roommate once or twice but still, that doesn’t provide much explanation into the truly .. well … just read for yourself:
The Struggle for Acceptance in Society
Johnny was a groundhog. He lived with his mother and father and little groundhog brothers and sisters. Johnny was well-respected member of his groundhog community. He was the captain of his groundhog softball team and always went bowling with the Good Guy Groundhog Brotherhood. But Johnny had a deep dark secret. Johnny the groundhog was claustrophobic.
Johnny’s horrible condition had come as a result of a traumatizing experience as a groundhog gimp. Being the only Catholic \groundhog family in his neighborhood, Johnny’s family was always being harassed. One night, Johnny awoke to the sounds of the Nazi Groundhog Rejuvenation alliance assembling outside the hole. Johnny woke his family and they were running out the back hole as a load of explosives, Ladyfingers, was hurled into the hole. All but Johnny’s father had escaped when the hole blew. Crushing his father. Ever since, Johnny had been afraid of groundhog holes and firecrackers.
So did his best to live his life normally, but never stayed in the hole for very long. At night, he would sneak out and sleep in a nearby pasture. One day, Johnny awoke to find a small, wild Chihuahua standing over him. The dog, Olgasa by name, sat and talked with Johnny for a spell (kinda like Looney Tunes). The two soon fell in love and Johnny took Olga back to his hole to his mother. When his mother heard of Johnny’s love for Olga, she screamed (yes, this is an old, overused Pyramus and Thisbe reference) in rage. She bellowed at him never come to her hole again. Little did she know that this is exactly what Johnny wanted, for although he loved his family, he had grown tired of his secret. He also knew interspecies relationships were shunned by groundhog Catholics.
So Johnny the groundhog and Olgasa the Chihuahua eloped and started a nudist colony for furry animal couples.
- Writers/Editors note: This is exactly the way the original appears on the page, no omissions at all.
2 thoughts on “Portrait of the Artist as a Groundhog”
Read it. Can’t explain it. Felt it. Loved it.
I’d like to comment, but words fail me … 🙂