What you see before you is not just a picture of a raccoon in a cage on a lawn in Redondo Beach, California. It is a symbol – a symbol of life, of the progression and evolution of life. It is a symbol of triumph – triumph over danger, disease, and certain, painful death. And it a symbol of destiny – of the destiny of one man, a chubby, otherwise unremarkable man, and his relentless pursuit to defeat the enemy, to never give up, to never stop until his enemy had been completely vanquished and the lives and livelihoods of his friends and loved ones were safe, once and for all. It is a dream, The American Dream, actualized.

In short: We got you, you little son of a bitch.

On Saturday evening, I was driving around Hollywood in my car, rubbing myself at red lights and killing time, when I got a call from my roommate Mark. Mark was preparing a Valentine’s Day dinner for a lady love (which explains why I was out driving around, sort-of-masturbating) and returned home to see what I saw last week – a giant, angry raccoon perched on our roof just above the door.

When Mark told me this, I was so panicked that I hung up the phone. Then he called me back, and I hung up again. Then he called again, and I hung up a third time. This went on for about three or four more times until Mark left me a voicemail saying that he wasn’t going to call anymore, but the raccoon went away and he had made it safely into the house.

By that time, the traps were already in place, two steel contraptions at the base of each tree in our front yard. Earlier in the day, they were set by a man named Clint, a professional animal remover and likely ex-con, who theorized that the raccoon was indeed making a nest in the ceiling of our home between the first and second floors, a nest which he was accessing by going up either tree to the roof and into a vent. The vent had once been covered by chicken wire, but as Clint explained, raccoons are very crafty creatures and strong for their size, more than capable of tearing away rusty chicken wire to find a hole to snuggle into.

Before leaving us, Clint also explained that we would likely catch a number of animals in these traps, everything from squirrels and cats to possums and skunks. For skunks, he said, we should call him, but we could let the other animals out ourselves. Clint showed us how to do this, as well as how to re-bait the traps with healthy servings of peanut butter. Anxious, we said goodbye to Clint, who probably stole at least one of our watches. It would be a small price to pay if we could successfully catch the raccoon.

When Mark saw the raccoon on Saturday night, we were convinced it would be trapped in short order. Instead, on Sunday morning we awoke to find a possum, the rat’s ugly cousin. Clint said that when most animals get trapped, they’ll concede defeat and sort of lay there, maybe making some crying sounds, but otherwise resigned to their dismal fate (actions not unlike six of the seven women I’ve made love to; the seventh was really methed out and kept asking me to call her “Cock Gobbler” in a German accent). This possum was no exception; it took it a few seconds to realize we were there, then a few seconds to walk out of the trap, then a few seconds to do any real movement. After witnessing this listless, completely apathetic and nearly retarded display, I am convinced that sometime in 15th century Ireland a Mulgrew took a possum lover and, long story short, I’m here. And I’m tired.

When the rain came hard over the next few nights and each morning we awoke to find the traps raccoon-less, we grew convinced. We knew that the raccoon was still around – it was getting much more agitated in our ceiling, banging around, having a total fucking blast, while we sat on the couch, wondering if the roof was going to collapse and we’d come face to face with the monster. But why, when it was apparently having so much fun and the rain was falling so fiercely, would it venture out at all?

Last night, I fell asleep listening to the rain and scratching my chest and torso almost to a bloody pulp. When I woke up at 7:15am, the sun was shining and I began my day: scratching some more, checking on my penis, scratching again, then farting. When it was 7:17am, just before I got into the shower, I heard a shriek from downstairs. My roommate Selena looked out the window and saw that, finally, we got the raccoon, which, like the possum and my formers lovers, sat idly in the cage, tired, defeated, and ready to get it over with. By the time I get home this evening, Clint will have returned to our place and taken the animal for relocation. Also, one of my guitars will probably be missing. But for now – and forever – victory is ours.

And yes, perhaps I had nothing to do with the capture of this animal. I did not lay the traps (Clint did). I didn’t call the trapper (Selena did). I didn’t even throw something at it, which is what Mark later said he did on that Saturday night. Hell, I didn’t even take this picture. But I bring this story to you, dear reader, to show that through the sheer will to do absolutely, 100%, positively nothing, anything, all things, can be accomplished.

God bless America.