Grandpa hates the chipmunks. They come through the floor like flowers in the garden and chew all the wires in the electrical closet. It blacks out the lights and he can’t even throw the breaker, they’ve chewed that, too. Then they drink all the Pale Ale and wouldn’t you know it, that’s Grandpa’s favorite, but now he can’t even reason with them, he’s got a whole house full of dumb-drunk chipmunks putting the moves on Grandma. And Grandma always was a woman of loose morals, so she’s not turning them away, though she’s doing well not to invite them into her room, as it’s full of her hosiery. Chipmunk poison’s stuffed in the vents, Grandpa bought it at the hardware store not two days ago when this whole mess started, but he doesn’t want to reveal his plans for counterattack to a bunch of, now, ferocious chipmunks eating steak sausages. And when a chipmunk gets well-fed on sausage, God knows Grandpa best act quickly, they’ll become insistent. So he shoves the tiny sacks of poison into the pool pump, and what do you know? Next they’re all in the pool, cannonballing bare-assed, clogging up the drain, drinking pool water and soon they’re all rigor-mortis, bellies-up, fat in the furry, murky green water, chlorine-smelling and there’s Grandpa laughing, standing in the flowers, pointing at dead chipmunks, slapping his knees.
Moonwalking With Einstein