Don’t Call Me Bambi


A deer crashed into a liquor store in Weymouth, Mass., breaking a $205 limited edition bottle of beer, cocktail glasses and high-end liquors, causing damage estimated at $3,000 before sprinting out the front door.

The Boston Globe

“Do you have Bud Light in the convenient 24-can ‘beer suitcase’ package?” 


“Arent’ you cute?”  Yer damned right I’m cute, lady, but what I need now isn’t a handful of sunflower seeds.  I need to get some beer.

I am getting sick and tired of all the human encroachments on my territory I have to live with every day.  I tell ya, it’s driving me to drink.  It’s time to take the battle to the enemy’s front door.

“I’m looking for something light and crisp, a Vouvray or a Sauvignon Blanc.”


I wouldn’t mind if nature could produce snacks as good as humans get–but no.  While I’m cracking my incisors on acorns and choking on scrub pine bark, stupid humans get honey-roasted peanuts, cheese-coated popcorn, blue corn chips.  I can forage for days without ever seeing an ear of blue corn!

“It’s one thing to look at US Weekly in line–you actually bought a copy?”


Let’s see, the closest packy [Editor’s note: New England slang for “liquor store.”] is probably in Weymouth.  Can’t get any beer in Hingham–they’re afraid it will encourage the lawn guys to stay in town after they’re finished manicuring the holly and the ivy.  Only malbecs and chardonnays.  No butter in the grocery stores there.  People complained it didn’t melt in their mouths.

“The only ID I have is my Sierra Club card.”


Ah–here we go.  Quik Pik Liquor–no muss, no fuss.  No snooty “in-store sommelier” to ask me what vintage I’m looking for.  “Bud Light 2013–I hear it was the best year of the 21st century!”

Whoa, sorry about that.  Didn’t mean to knock over the display.  How much do I owe you for that Sam Adams?  $205!  Are you freaking kidding me?  For two hundred dollars I’d want a lap dancer to serve it to me.  How can a bottle of beer cost $205?

Oh–it’s a “limited release Utopia.”  Well, ex-cuuuuuse me!  Here’s what I think of your flipping fruitcake beer.  Yeah–how do you like them road apples?  Like I give two shits about your “high-end cocktail glasses.”  Maybe next time you’ll treat wildlife with the proper respect.

“You have the right to remain silent.”


You talkin’ to me?  You wanna go?  You feel froggy just leap, pal.  Why don’t I just . . . ram my head against the single-malt scotch rack?  That’ll set you back about two years’ profits.  Yeah, I know the high-margin stuff when I see it.  Or how about some of this vodka?  It’s all the freaking same–neutral grain spirits!–but somehow or other by brand differentiation and marketing you talk the best upper sets into paying ten times what they should for booze made from . . . potatoes.

What did you call me?  Bambi?  Ok, now you’ve gone and done it.  Don’t you ever call me Bambi, understand?  Or I might get really mad.

And try and pay by check.

Available in Kindle format on as part of the collection “Wild Animals of Nature!”

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