Murine tears
Well, that didn't last long.
Only days after my escape from the clutches of the nefarious Doctor Fingerer, the Woman is on my case again. Still slogging through the endless bog of detox, and I have to put up with additional grief.
Apparently (and I hastily add that the Woman's intel is highly questionable here) there's a rat in the house. Or, to hear her tell it, a whole clan of rats. She rambles on about droppings and nibble marks and her precious kitchen, she stays up all hours of the night maniacally scrubbing every surface, all the while wailing about crispmas and family coming and all the baking she has to do. Then she wheels on me, pointing her accusatory digit as if trying to channel lightning through it, and bellows some nonsense about my obligations.
First of all, and let me be clear on this point: I don't see no stinking rat. Sure, the place is a little more pungent than usual, but between the regurgitations of the Small Man, the flatulence of the Big Rodent, and that monstrosity of a tree you dragged into the house, isn't it a little presumptuous to place all the blame on some phantom vermin?
Second of all, where in my contract does it say anything about ratwork? They aren't in my bed, they aren't in my food, they aren't in my yard. What concern is it of mine if your chocolate molds get a little speckled? Hm? I mean, I'm in recovery here. Cut me some damn slack.
Finally, consider this: Maybe, just maybe, if you hadn't let me rot away in Doctor Fingerer's gulag for nearly a week, these alleged invaders might not have gotten a foothold in your precious kitchen. Maybe you left the threshold unguarded for too long this time. Ya think?
That said, I don't want to sound completely callous to your plight. So, in gratitude for your late-but-effective efforts in securing my freedom, I'll have a look around. But no promises.
Only days after my escape from the clutches of the nefarious Doctor Fingerer, the Woman is on my case again. Still slogging through the endless bog of detox, and I have to put up with additional grief.
Apparently (and I hastily add that the Woman's intel is highly questionable here) there's a rat in the house. Or, to hear her tell it, a whole clan of rats. She rambles on about droppings and nibble marks and her precious kitchen, she stays up all hours of the night maniacally scrubbing every surface, all the while wailing about crispmas and family coming and all the baking she has to do. Then she wheels on me, pointing her accusatory digit as if trying to channel lightning through it, and bellows some nonsense about my obligations.
First of all, and let me be clear on this point: I don't see no stinking rat. Sure, the place is a little more pungent than usual, but between the regurgitations of the Small Man, the flatulence of the Big Rodent, and that monstrosity of a tree you dragged into the house, isn't it a little presumptuous to place all the blame on some phantom vermin?
Second of all, where in my contract does it say anything about ratwork? They aren't in my bed, they aren't in my food, they aren't in my yard. What concern is it of mine if your chocolate molds get a little speckled? Hm? I mean, I'm in recovery here. Cut me some damn slack.
Finally, consider this: Maybe, just maybe, if you hadn't let me rot away in Doctor Fingerer's gulag for nearly a week, these alleged invaders might not have gotten a foothold in your precious kitchen. Maybe you left the threshold unguarded for too long this time. Ya think?
That said, I don't want to sound completely callous to your plight. So, in gratitude for your late-but-effective efforts in securing my freedom, I'll have a look around. But no promises.
so sayeth Shmool on Friday, December 07, 2007
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