Raccoons in my neighborhood, save one, are not spherical. They are big though, off that Seattle trash. They're fat as fuck off Brie rinds and jamón ibérico trimmings. Some of these bad boys can deliver near-cryptid thrills. When I was driving home one night, I saw one that didn't even read as a raccoon visually - my mind told me that it was most likely a toddler that had escaped from some kind of toddler… prison. That's what it gave me! Not helpful.
I'm confident that every living being knows about Jimothy, a ball-shaped raccoon that has amassed global fame and honor, a round friend who has more college degrees than I do.
I've seen a few articles referring to Jimothy as a "mutant," and I will admit that it makes me want to fight them in the street. Set its factual nature aside: the dynamics are the same if someone said something about my mother. It's fine if I say something about my mother, and I frequently do. But if you say something about my mom it will spark a chain of events that culminates in taxidermy. It's the same situation with young Jimothy. I don't want outsiders - least of all Australians - talking about my raccoons genes.
(CW)TB out.
