Don’t feed the squirrels


Don’t Feed the Squirrels…

Reader Warning: If you love squirrels, if you think they are noble and deserving creatures and not zombie psychos, then content below will offend. Read at your own risk.

I met a zombie squirrel once. She, at least I think she was a she, had crooked yellow teeth and eyes that suggested she would have no problem ripping into your neck. I was eating almonds out of a small container and she came up to me, jumped on my leg and took it. She ran away with it before I could even realize what had happened. I never cussed out at animal until that day.

But that’s not when I turned on squirrels. I turned on squirrels when I was sixteen.

My parent’s backyard was filled with them. They were cute. I wanted a pet. So I became that person we all shake our heads condescendingly at: the one feeding wild animals.

I got a pet squirrel. I named it Tully.  Tully lived outside but I would feed him assorted nuts three times a day. Carrot peels sometimes (I assumed he ate anything), apple cores.

Everything was perfect until we went on vacation for two weeks. When we came back we noticed that the back door looked like it had dozens of long scratches all over it. We thought maybe a hailstorm did it. They are common that time of year.

A day later we started noticing other strange things around the house. Our gutters were poked all over. It looked like some bb gun had gotten to them. We blamed the neighbors kids.

The upstairs bathroom had a small leak, right over the tub. We blamed our old roof and the potential hailstorm.

My father called a roof repair person immediately and had her come investigate (why did you assume the roofing repair guy was an actual guy? So weird we even call it “the roofing repair guy” that’s discrimination, just sayin’. Sure, this was possibly the one roofing woman in history but still…). She couldn’t be there until Saturday. It was Thursday. That’s when Tully started torturing my family. As if he knew that he had a few days to enact his revenge.

On Thursday night we started hearing hollers from the attic. Then footsteps. And more hollers. Then scratches. I was sixteen. Not old enough to fully convince myself ghosts weren’t real and that our house wasn’t built on Native American burial ground. Honestly though, aren’t all houses buried on these holy grounds? But that’s a story for another time.

My parents kept saying maybe a scorpion got in, or a bird. Okay.  So the difference between a scorpion and a bird is huge….just sayin’. Why they didn’t just stick to bird is beyond me. I didn’t sleep all night.

On Friday, Tully knocked on the back door. Yes, knocked. I honestly wish I were kidding. That little fucker knocked on our back door. When I opened it he stood in front of me, bravely demanding food, little paw out, his eyes a bit crossed and his teeth clattering. How I thought this creature cute was beyond me.

And at that moment, with that asshole standing right in front of me, I realized. He destroyed our gutters, our roof, our attic, because I had left him unfed. Squirrels are way smarter than we think. Take this as a warning humanity. If the zombie apocalypse comes, squirrels will be the end of us. It’ll be like Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, only with squirrels.

Rockford Roofing came on Saturday ( and discovered that we needed to replace several pieces of our roof. She said she had never seen anything like it. It seemed that whatever caused the damage concentrated only on two areas: the bathroom area and my bedroom. I’m telling you that squirrel was out to get me.

When I told her my theory, she laughed but decided to check out the attic herself to see if any animal got in through the roof into the attic. She thought it improbable.

Improbable my ass.

We told her to go ahead. She went in our tiny attic and looked astonished when she came back down.  In the attic she found nuts, some odd rotting fruits, and scratches all over the walls. A squirrel’s den.

Tully had taken over our house in protest. Clever little asshole.

Estimated damages to our roof were well over two-thousand dollars.

Lesson to learn here: don’t feed the squirrels.

Bernie Sanders está Más Cerca que Nunca de la Nominación


En este momento,  y sin muchas dudas, la señora Clinton lleva una ventaja sobre Bernie Sanders, mi candidato de preferencia.

La realidad es que ninguno de los dos candidatos demócratas llegará a la convención con la cantidad de delegados suficientes para asegurarse la nominación.

Más allá de que si a Hillary la acusan formalmente de traición por el tema de los emails y el servidor, (aunque ese sería el camino más rápido para Bernie, ya que la gran mayoría de los delegados que se comprometieron a Hillary la abandonarían rápidamente).

El partido demócrata sabe que sin el apoyo de nosotros, los que votamos a Bernie, y en gran cantidad tambien la mayoría de los “INDEPENDIENTES”, Hillary no tiene los suficientes votos necesarios para ganara la elección presidencial en Noviembre.

Pero tenemos que hacerselo saber. La cada vez mas popular hashtag #bernieorbust agrupa a los que apoyamos a Bernie para hacerle saber al Partido Demócrata de que sin nuestro apoyo, Hillary no es el candidato que pueda ganerle al retrógrado Trump o al diabóllico Cruz.

Solo Bernie les gana AMPLIAMENTE a cualquiera de ellos, como lo demuestran TODAS las encuestas.

Saben por qué Hillary gana todas las primarias “cerradas” y Bernie ARRASA en todas las primarias abiertas? Porque en las abiertas permiten votar a los independientes, mientras que en las cerradas solo los que se registraron como demócratas.

En una elección general presidencial, VOTAMOS TODOS.

Es por eso que en la convención demócrata, cuando estos “superdelegados” se den por enterados de que nosotros solo votamos a Bernie, tomarán consciencia de la importancia de cambiar su voto a Bernie Sanders.

No podemos entregarnos. Hemos trabajado demasiado para apoyar a Bernie y debemos hacerlo hasta el final. Y hacerle saber al partido de que sin nuestro voto, el partido no existe.

Sigamos donando aqui:



The Curse of Tradition

Tradition. Food, behaviors… all these things that kinda bring us together as a group, family, ethic origin, country of origin. Also a way to add labels to people.

Good and bad, right?

Here’s the thing: My grandpa was Mexican. My dad was born here, but married a Mexican. So, I would say, I’m Mexican, right? Have I ever been to Mexico? NO. Do I speak Spanish? Not really. Do I have a Mexican name? Hell yeah. Do I consider myself Mexican? Hell no! I’m second generation American! But I guarantee you that if I went to a Trump rally I would be accused of stealing someone’s job or even be looked at as a criminal… But I digress… Traditions.

Last new year, some cousins I didn’t even  know I had came to visit from Arizona. Nice people. Really. Did the turkey thing, 28 different side dishes, tossed the pigskin around after dinner and watch some good American TV. Pretty standard for us all.

rosca1The weird thing happened after dinner: the Galvez’ from Arizona had gotten their hands on some massive doughnut looking thing. I’m not kidding. It was the size of an extra large pizza. With a whole in the middle.

Filled with some weird fruit and stuff, it was… meh. But I was polite and had a second slice.

Unbeknownst to me, and very much to my surprise, that second slice ended up costing me money.

Lemme explain: I bit into the darn thing and seemed to have chomped on something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Hard, non-food-like, freaky. My initial reaction was of being grossed out.

roscaAt that moment, EVERYONE in the visiting family started pointing at me, cheering and laughing. I was like… WTF? I just almost chipped a tooth, people!

Turns out that what I had just bitten into had bought them a taco feast, apparently.

You see, Mexicans have this tradition that they will bake a plastic little figurine of Jesus (yep, you read that right…) into the dough. Its placement, of course is random, and whomever ends up getting the slice that contains such religious figurine, is automatically bound and committed to hosting a huge taco party at some later date for all those present at the time. Not sure which version of the bible that’s in… but we’ll deal with that another time.

I asked if I could make it hamburgers instead, but they said it had to be tacos. WTF? I’m not even a big fan of tacos! But apparently it is bad karma if I screw this up or bail on doing it. So not only do I have to host a bunch of people I don’t know at my house this summer, but I’m gonna have to fork out some cash to pay some dude to come out and make these tacos for them! LOVE TRADITIONS. And, BTW… thanks, Jesus. You’re a pal.