A man washes blueberries in a colander over the kitchen sink, unaware of what is about to happen to him. He pours the blueberries into a bowl and carries it to the living room to watch TV. The man is unaware of what is about to happen to him because he does not know the truth about blueberries. The man is also unaware that he is unaware of the truth about blueberries.

The truth about blueberries is this: approximately 70 years ago, a squirrel decided to hatch a plot to exact revenge against all people. The squirrel had many family members and friends who had been run over while crossing a road, and it had heard countless stories of others who had met the same fate. The squirrel hated people for their seemingly callous disregard for its species.

As the squirrel sat on a fence overlooking a blueberry farm, an idea struck.

The blueberries.

The squirrel’s plan was simple and brilliant: it would bite a small hole into an almost ripe blueberry, dig out a tiny cavity, and then carefully take a crap into it. If done enough times, some of these befouled blueberries would eventually get picked, packaged, sold, and eaten. So several times a day throughout the spring and summer, the squirrel would do this to random blueberries at the farm, and he encouraged any squirrel he encountered to do the same.

As word spread, the plan was overwhelmingly embraced by all squirrels, and their revenge kicked into high gear. The squirrel roughly calculated that if they hit every ninth blueberry, there would be adequate and ongoing payback for all squirrels murdered by incompetent human drivers.

Eventually the Ninth Blueberry Crapping Standard was established among the squirrels. The squirrel believed that at this rate of contamination, there would be just enough crapped-in blueberries to not raise any suspicions by farmers or consumers.

Over the decades, crapping into blueberries became as much an instinctive part of squirrels’ lives as saving food for winter or running in a zig zag pattern to elude a predator.

Squirrels have long been observing people eating blueberries and enjoying their suffering.

Back in the living room, the man’s bowl contains 57 blueberries. Outside his living room window, a squirrel sits perched on a branch, watching. Waiting. Knowing.

The squirrel estimates that there are at least six blueberries in the bowl that have squirrel crap in them, which would be a fine ratio.

The man mindlessly picks up the blueberries one by one and pops them into his mouth. After biting one particular blueberry, the man’s face sours, and he spits it out into the side of the bowl.

Outside, the squirrel takes gleeful note.