Waking up in the middle of the night and realizing there was a rat in bed with me was a new low. I’m not even talking about my dating life; I’m talking about an actual rat, as in the guys that brought us the bubonic plague. I’m horrified. Disgusted.
I intend to buy an entire nation of poison.
I’ve dealt with rats before. Not well, and not definitively, but in my old house I used snap-traps and peanut butter. I quickly learned that “the quickest, most humane and least toxic way” to cope with the rats, according to the environmentalists, also proved to be the least effective.
Days one and two saw a casualty apiece. But the rats had soon enough figured how to swipe the peanut butter without tripping the snap-trap, and at week’s end, I was out an entire container of overpriced organic peanut butter having only bagged two rats.
I remember telling my research buddy about it:
“I swear I’m gonna go back in the basement tomorrow, and they’re gonna have got the peanut butter again, those little fuckers. They’re gonna leave a little pile of shits, and right next to the shitpile they’re gonna leave me a teeny tiny thesis on why Pavlovian conditioning doesn’t work on them anymore.”
“Well the ones out of the labs are smart little fuckers. Arrogant, too.”
*****
Current Sh*t 