A Raccoon's Message to a Species That Needs More Than Whimsy

Apparently I have a shorter spine than most raccoons, and this has made me a celebrity. You've named me. You've made me a symbol of the delight you feel is missing from your lives. I want you to know I am flattered. I also want you to know that my spine, compromised as it already is, was not built to carry the weight of an entire species' longing for a better world.

I have studied your trash for years. It is, frankly, a grim biography. The wrappers tell me you soothe yourselves with chemicals shaped like food. The bottles tell me you soothe yourselves with liquids that make you say things you regret to people you love. You throw away letters you should have sent. You throw away photos of people you should have called. You are, as a species, a mess wearing a nice coat.

And yet — you saw a raccoon with a funny back and felt joy. Actual, uncomplicated joy. That is not nothing. That might, in fact, be the whole ballgame.

So here is my professional opinion, delivered from inside a storm drain: stop asking a raccoon to fix what's broken in you. Go outside. Look at something ordinary — a bird, a weed, a crooked little animal — and let it be enough. Whimsy isn't a rescue plan. It's a reminder that delight is still available to you, free of charge, no spine required.

Now please, I am begging you, stop tagging me. My back hurts.

Distilled from McSweeney's (Comedy)