2025

Yo, lemme spit this from the human side, straight bars, no chaser—
I’m just tryna cop a coffee on Ste-Catherine, mindin’ my bidness, when the whole damn block freeze…
I seen ‘em roll up, six deep in a matte-black Maybach stretch limo,
tinted windows cracked just enough for them bushy tails to flick out like mink stoles.
Driver’s a red squirrel in a silk Versace durag, gold acorn chain swingin’ heavy,
he hop out, pop the trunk—cases of Grey Goose and jars of imported Iranian pistachios.
They speakin’ that Québec squirrel creole, tabarnak this, câlice that, ostie de colon d’anglais,
but every curse got a Wall Street ticker taped to it—
“Yo, passe-moé les nuts, mon portefeuille est en crisse à 47 % YTD, sacrament!”
One fat grey général—think Napoleon but with diamond grills—
stands on the hood of the Maybach, tail arched like a gang sign,
barking orders in perfect Joual:
“On va short le TSX encore une fois, pis après on crash le FTSE pour le fun, baptême!”
They got iPhones bigger than they heads, FaceTimin’ squirrels in Tokyo, London, São Paulo,
all of ‘em laughing in synchronized crisse, counting billions in real time.
Bitches—human bitches—lined up ten deep just to get a selfie,
squirrels pose, middle paw up, throwin’ gang signs that spell “C-I-B-C” in fur.
I’m standin’ there, jaw on the ground,
one of ‘em locks eyes wit’ me—pure diva Elmo energy—
points a tiny claw and screams:
“Yo, toi là, le cave! T’as pas d’noix pour moé? J’te fais fermer ta marge d’call tomorrow, sacrament de crisse!”
Next thing I know, my TD app blowin’ up—account negative six figures,
while they all moonwalk across the crosswalk, dabbing to a remix of “Informez-vous” by Snow but with Dr. Dre beats.
Tail twerkin’, acorns rainin’ from the sky like strip-club singles,
and the whole crew chantin’:
“Québec squirrels run the world, ostie—pay up or get buried in options, mon homme!”
I just wanted a double-double…
Now I’m broke, shook, and low-key impressed.
These motherfuckers really did crash the NASDAQ in ‘87…
and they still flexin’ like it was yesterday.
Straight outta Parc Lafontaine, crazy rich rodents named Québec Squirrels—
if you ain’t got they nuts, you ain’t got no future, feel me?
Mic drop. Acorn hits the pavement like a gunshot.
They gone. Maybach peels out.
I’m left holdin’ an empty Tim’s cup… and a margin call.
Tabarnak.

Mindin' my own business

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