I have a completely illogical fear of mice. And most animals for that matter, but for the purpose of this conversation, mice.
“How illogical?” you say?
I don’t watch Tale of Despereaux or Ratatouille or even Tom & Jerry. I hate the scurrying little suckers. The mere sound of their little feet or whiskers or whatever the shit makes that sound just sends chills up my spine and forces the need for Xanax and vodka. STAT.
Once, about 10 years ago, I went on a mission trip to Mexico (not Cancun people. not one of the good places.) (and no, I’m not Mormon. Uhhhh… obviously, I guess.) Anyway, completely inappropriate rambling aside, there was no plumbing in this particular area. We did our business in an outhouse.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT LIVES UNDER AN OUTHOUSE IN GHETTO MEXICO??? A family of rats, that’s what. I’m almost positive I didn’t shit the whole week we were there. And I know for a fact I didn’t sit on the “seat.” Those creepy little bastards just scurried around under there the whole time scads of girls were squatting above them. Never in my life did I wish I had a penis so badly. Oh to be able to stand up to pee that week.
Ummmm… what were we talking about? Oh, right. I think my kitchen has a mouse! And there is no one here right now that knows how to handle such a crisis. I called the hubbs to come home and deal with it and he said NO. He clearly does not have the sense god gave a raccoon to see this is an issue.
Those fuckers carry rabies dammit. Send reinforcements. I need an exterminator!!!